J.LOING 


LIBRARY 

OF    THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

Class 


The  leading  bulls  gave  a  few  mighty  bounds 


WILDERNESS    WAYS 


BY 


WILLIAM   J.   LONG 


BOSTON,   U.S.A. 
GINN  &  COMPANY,  PUBLISHERS 


"  r  i 


COPYRIGHT,  1900 
BY  WILLIAM   J.   LONG 

ALL    RIGHTS   RESERVED 

44-8 


To  KlLLOOLEET,  Little  Sweet- 
Voice,  who  shares  my  camp  and 
makes  sunshine  as  I  work  and  play 


! 


PREFACE. 


'THHE  following  sketches,  like  the  "  Ways  of  Wood  Folk," 

-*-     are  the  result  of  many  years  of  personal  observation  in 

the  woods  and  fields.     They  are  studies  of  animals,  pure  and 

simple,  not  of  animals  with  human  motives  and  imaginations. 

Indeed,  it  is  hardly  necessary  for  genuine  interest  to 
give  human  traits  to  the  beasts.  Any  animal  is  inter- 
esting enough  as  an  animal,  and  has  character  enough  of 
his  own,  without  borrowing  anything  from  man  —  as  one 
may  easily  find  out  by  watching  long  enough. 

Most  wild  creatures  have  but  small  measure  of  gentleness 
in  them,  and  that  only  by  instinct  and  at  short  stated  sea- 
sons. Hence  I  have  given  both  sides  and  both  kinds,  the 
shadows  and  lights,  the  savagery  as  well  as  the  gentleness 
of  the  wilderness  creatures. 

It  were  pleasanter,  to  be  sure,  especially  when  you  have 
been  deeply  touched  by  some  exquisite  bit  of  animal  devo- 
tion, to  let  it  go  at  that,  and  to  carry  with  you  henceforth  an 
ideal  creature. 

But  the  whole  truth  is  better  —  better  for  you,  better  for 
children  —  else  personality  becomes  confused  with  mere 


vi  Preface. 

animal  individuality,  and  love  turns  to  instinct,  and  senti- 
ment vaporizes  into  sentimentality. 

This  mother  fox  or  fish-hawk  here,  this  strong  mother 
loon  or  lynx  that  to-day  brings  the  quick  moisture  to  your 
eyes  by  her  utter  devotion  to  the  little  helpless  things  which 
great  Mother  Nature  gave  her  to  care  for,  will  to-morrow, 
when  they  are  grown,  drive  those  same  little  ones  with 
savage  treatment  into  the  world  to  face  its  dangers  alone, 
and  will  turn  away  from  their  sufferings  thereafter  with 
astounding  indifference. 

It  is  well  to  remember  this,  and  to  give  proper  weight  to 
the  word,  when'  we  speak  of  the  love  of  animals  for  their 
little  ones. 

I  met  a  bear  once  —  but  this  foolish  thing  is  not  to  be 
imitated  —  with  two  small  cubs  following  at  her  heels.  The 
mother  fled  into  the  brush  ;  the  cubs  took  to  a  tree.  After 
some  timorous  watching  I  climbed  after  the  cubs,  and  shook 
them  off,  and  put  them  into  a  bag,  and  carried  them  to  my 
canoe,  squealing  and  appealing  to  the  one  thing  in  the  woods 
that  could  easily  have  helped  them.  I  was  ready  enough  to 
quit  all  claims  and  to  take  to  the  brush  myself  upon  induce- 
ment. But  the  mother  had  found  a  blueberry  patch  and  was 
stuffing  herself  industriously. 

And  I  have  seen  other  mother  bears  since  then,  and  foxes 
and  deer  and  ducks  and  sparrows,  and  almost  all  the  wild 
creatures  between,  driving  their  own  offspring  savagely 


Preface.  vii 

away.  Generally  the  young  go  of  their  own  accord  as  early 
as  possible,  knowing  no  affection  but  only  dependence,  and 
preferring  liberty  to  authority ;  but  more  than  once  I  have 
been  touched  by  the  sight  of  a  little  one  begging  piteously 
to  be  fed  or  just  to  stay,  while  the  mother  drove  him  away 
impatiently.  Moreover,  they  all  kill  their  weaklings,  as  a 
rule,  and  the  burdensome  members  of  too  large  a  family. 
This  is  not  poetry  or  idealization,  but  just  plain  animal 
nature. 

As  for  the  male  animals,  little  can  be  said  truthfully  for 
their  devotion.  Father  fox  and  wolf,  instead  of  caring  for 
their  mates  and  their  offspring,  as  we  fondly  imagine,  live 
apart  by  themselves  in  utter  selfishness.  They  do  nothing 
whatever  for  the  support  or  instruction  of  the  young,  and  are 
never  suffered  by  the  mothers  to  come  into  the  den,  lest  they 
destroy  their  own  little  ones.  One  need  not  go  to  the  woods 
to  see  this;  his  own  stable  or  kennel,  his  own  dog  or  cat 
will  be  likely  to  reveal  the  startling  brutality  at  the  first 
good  opportunity. 

An  indiscriminate  love  for  all  animals,  likewise,  is  not  the 
best  sentiment  to  cultivate  toward  creation.  Black  snakes  in 
a  land  of  birds,  sharks  in  the  bluefish  rips,  rabbits  in 
Australia,  and  weasels  everywhere  are  out  of  place  in  the 
present  economy  of  nature.  Big  owls  and  hawks,  represent- 
ing a  yearly  destruction  of  thousands  of  good  game  birds  and 
of  untold  innocent  songsters,  may  also  be  profitably  studied 


viii  'Preface. 

with  a  gun  sometimes  instead  of  an  opera-glass.  A  mink  is 
good  for  nothing  but  his  skin  ;  a  red  squirrel  —  I  hesitate  to 
tell  his  true  character  lest  I  spoil  too  many  tender  but  false 
ideals  about  "him  all  at  once. 

The  point  is  this,  that  sympathy  is  too  true  a  thing  to  be 
aroused  falsely,  and  that  a  wise  discrimination,  which  recog- 
nizes good  and  evil  in  the  woods,  as  everywhere  else  in  the 
world,  and  which  loves  the  one  and  hates  the  other,  is  vastly 
better  for  children,  young  and  old,  than  the  blind  sentimen- 
tality aroused  by  ideal  animals  with  exquisite  human  pro- 
pensities. Therefore  I  wrote  the  story  of  Kagax,  simply 
to  show  him  as  he  is,  and  so  to  make  you  hate  him. 

In  this  one  chapter,  the  story  of  Kagax  the  Weasel,  I  have 
gathered  into  a  single  animal  the  tricks  and  cruelties  of  a 
score  of  vicious  little  brutes  that  I  have  caught  red-handed  at 
their  work.  In  the  other  chapters  I  have,  for  the  most  part, 
again  searched  my  old  notebooks  and  the  records  of  wilder- 
ness camps,  and  put  the  individual  animals  down  just  as  I 

found  them.  ,,,       T    T 

WM.  J.   LONG. 

STAMFORD,  September,  1900. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

I.     MEGALEEP  THE  WANDERER i 

II.  KlLLOOLEET,    LITTLE    SWEET-VOICE      ....                26 

III.  KAGAX  THE  BLOODTHIRSTY 41 

IV.  KOOKOOSKOOS,    WHO    CATCHES    THE    WRONG    RAT         .  59 

V.  CHIGWOOLTZ  THE  FROG  .         •         •         *  .      .         .         -75 

VI.  CLOUD  WINGS  THE  EAGLE          .         .         .         .         .           88 

VII.  UPWEEKIS  THE  SHADOW          .         .         .         .         .         .     108 

VIII.  HUKWEEM    THE    NlGHT    VOICE      .             ...             .             133 


GLOSSARY  OF  INDIAN  NAMES    .         .         .         .         .         •         .     155 


A  R 


or  THE 
UNIVERSITY  j 


WILDERNESS    WAYS. 


I.     MEGALEEP    THE    WANDERER. 

EGALEEP  is  the  big  woodland 
caribou  of  the  northern  wilder- 
ness. His  Milicete  name  means 
The  Wandering  One,  but  it 
ought  to  mean  the  Mysterious 
and  the  Changeful  as  well.  If 
you  hear  that  he  is  bold  and 
fearless,  that  is  true  ;  and  if  you  are 
told  that  he  is  shy  and  wary  and  inap- 
proachable, that  is  also  true.  For  he  is 
never  the  same  two  days  in  succession. 
At  once  shy  and  bold,  solitary  and  gre- 
garious ;  restless  as  a  cloud,  yet  clinging  to  his  feed- 
ing grounds,  spite  of  wolves  and  hunters,  till  he  leaves 
them  of  his  own  free  will ;  wild  as  Kakagos  the  raven, 
but  inquisitive  as  a  blue  jay, — he  is  the  most  fascinat- 
ing and  the  least  known  of  all  the  deer. 

One  thing  is  quite  sure,   before  you   begin  your 
study :    he  is  never  where    his    tracks  are,  nor   any- 


2  Wilderness  Ways. 

where  near  it.  And  if  after  a  season's  watching  and 
following  you  catch  one  good  glimpse  of  him,  that  is 
a  good  beginning. 

I  had  always  heard  and  read  of  Megaleep  as  an  awk- 
ward, ungainly  animal,  but  almost  my  first  glimpse 
of  him  scattered  all  that  to  the  winds  and  set  my 
nerves  a-tingling  in  a  way  that  they  still  remember. 
It  was  on  a  great  chain  of  barrens  in  the  New  Bruns- 
wick wilderness.  I  was  following  the  trail  of  a  herd 
of  caribou  one  day,  when  far  ahead  a  strange  clack- 
ing sound  came  ringing  across  the  snow  in  the  crisp 
winter  air.  I  ran  ahead  to  a  point  of  woods  that  cut 
off  my  view  from  a  five-mile  barren,  only  to  catch 
breath  in  astonishment  and  drop  to  cover  behind  a 
scrub  spruce.  Away  up  the  barren  my  caribou,  a 
big  herd  of  them,  were  coming  like  an  express  train 
straight  towards  me.  At  first  I  could  make  out  only 
a  great  cloud  of  steam,  a  whirl  of  flying  snow,  and 
here  and  there  the  angry  shake  of  wide  antlers  or 
the  gleam  of  a  black  muzzle.  The  loud  clacking  of 
their  hoofs,  sweeping  nearer  and  nearer,  gave  a  snap, 
a  tingle,  a  wild  exhilaration  to  their  rush  which  made 
one  want  to  shout  and  swing  his  hat.  Presently  I 
could  make  out  the  individual  animals  through  the 
cloud  of  vapor,  that  drove  down  the  wind  before  them. 


Megaleep  the  Wanderer.  3 

They  were  going  at  a  splendid  trot,  rocking  easily 
from  side  to  side  like  pacing  colts,  power,  grace,  tire- 
lessness  in  every  stride.  Their  heads  were  high, 
their  muzzles  up,  the  antlers  well  back  on  heaving 
shoulders.  Jets  of  steam  burst  from  their  nostrils  at 
every  bound ;  for  the  thermometer  was  twenty  below 
zero,  and  the  air  snapping.  A  cloud  of  snow  whirled 
out  and  up  behind  them  ;  through  it  the  antlers  waved 
like  bare  oak  boughs  in  the  wind ;  the  sound  of 
their  hoofs  was  like  the  clicking  of  mighty  castanets 
-  "  Oh  for  a  sledge  and  bells !  "  I  thought ;  for  Santa 
Claus  never  had  such  a  team. 

So  they  came  on  swiftly,  magnificently,  straight  on 
to  the  cover  behind  which  I  crouched  with  nerves 
thrilling  as  at  a  cavalry  charge,  —  till  I  sprang  to  my 
feet  with  a  shout  and  swung  my  hat;  for,  as  there 
was  meat  enough  in  camp,  I  had  small  wish  to  use 
my  rifle,  and  no  desire  whatever  to  stand  that  rush 
at  close  quarters  and  be  run  down.  There  was  a 
moment  of  wild  confusion  out  on  the  barren  just  in 
front  of  me.  The  long  swinging  trot,  that  caribou 
never  change  if  they  can  help  it,  was  broken  into  an 
awkward  jumping  gallop.  The  front  rank  reared, 
plunged,  snorted  a  warning,  but  were  forced  onward 
by  the  pressure  behind.  Then  the  leading  bulls  gave 
a  few  mighty  bounds  which  brought  them  close  up 


4  Wilderness  Ways. 

to  me,  but  left  a  clear  space  for  the  frightened,  crowd- 
ing animals  behind.  The  swiftest  shot  ahead  to  the 
lead ;  the  great  herd  lengthened  out  from  its  com- 
pact mass ;  swerved  easily  to  the  left,  as  at  a  word  of 
command  ;  crashed  through  the  fringe  of  evergreen 
in  which  I  had  been  hiding,  —  out  into  the  open  again 
with  a  wild  plunge  and  a  loud  cracking  of  hoofs,  where 
they  all  settled  into  their  wonderful  trot  again,  and 
kept  on  steadily  across  the  barren  below. 

That  was  the  sight  of  a  lifetime.  One  who  saw 
it  could  never  again  think  of  caribou  as  ungainly 
animals. 

Megaleep  belongs  to  the  tribe  of  Ishmael.  Indeed, 
his  Latin  name,  as  well  as  his  Indian  one,  signifies 
The  Wanderer ;  and  if  you  watch  him  a  little  while  you 
will  understand  perfectly  why  he  is  called  so.  The 
first  time  I  ever  met  him  in  summer,  in  strong  con- 
trast to  the  winter  herd,  made  his  name  clear  in  a 
moment.  It  was  twilight  on  a  wilderness  lake.  I 
was  sitting  in  my  canoe  by  the  inlet,  wondering  what 
kind  of  bait  to  use  for  a  big  trout  which  lived  in  an 
eddy  behind  a  rock,  and  which  disdained  everything 
I  offered  him.  The  swallows  were  busy,  skimming 
low,  and  taking  the  young  mosquitoes  as  they  rose 
from  the  water.  One  dipped  to  the  surface  near  the 
eddy.  As  he  came  down  I  saw  a  swift  gleam  in  the 


Megaleep  the  Wanderer.  5 

depths  below.  He  touched  the  water;  there  was  a 
swirl,  a  splash  —  and  the  swallow  was  gone.  The 
trout  had  him. 

Then  a  cow  caribou  came  out  of  the  woods  onto 
the  grassy  point  above  me  to  drink.  First  she 
wandered  all  over  the  point,  making  it  look  after- 
wards as  if  a  herd  had  passed.  Then  she  took  a  sip 
of  water  by  a  rock,  crossed  to  my  side  of  the  point, 
and  took  a  sip  there ;  then  to  the  end  of  the  point, 
and  another  sip ;  then  back  to  the  first  place.  A  nib- 
ble of  grass,  and  she  waded  far  out  from  shore  to  sip 
there  ;  then  back,  with  a  nod  to  a  lily  pad,  and  a  sip 
nearer  the  brook.  Finally  she  meandered  a  long  way 
up  the  shore  out  of  sight,  and  when  I  picked  up  the 
paddle  to  go,  she  came  back  again.  Truly  a  Wander- 
geist  of  the  woods,  like  the  plover  of  the  coast,  who 
never  knows  what  he  wants,  nor  why  he  circles  about 
so,  nor  where  he  is  going  next. 

If  you  follow  the  herds  over  the  barrens  and  through 
the  forest  in  winter,  you  find  the  same  wandering, 
unsatisfied  creature.  And  if  you  are  a  sportsman 
and  a  keen  hunter,  with  well  established  ways  of 
trailing  and  stalking,  you  will  be  driven  to  despera- 
tion a  score  of  times  before  you  get  acquainted  with 
Megaleep.  He  travels  enormous  distances  without 
any  known  object.  His  trail  is  everywhere ;  he  is 


6  Wilderness  Ways. 

himself  nowhere.  You  scour  the  country  for  a  week, 
crossing  innumerable  trails,  thinking  the  surrounding 
woods  must  be  full  of  caribou  ;  then  a  man  in  a  lum- 
ber camp,  where  you  are  overtaken  by  night,  tells 
you  that  he  saw  the  herd  you  are  after  'way  down  on 
the  Renous  barrens,  thirty  miles  below.  You  go 
there,  and  have  the  same  experience,  —  signs  every- 
where, old  signs,  new  signs,  but  never  a  caribou. 
And,  ten  to  one,  while  you  are  there,  the  caribou  are 
sniffing  your  snowshoe  track  suspiciously  back  on 
the  barrens  that  you  have  just  left. 

Even  in  feeding,  when  you  are  hot  on  their  trail 
and  steal  forward  expecting  to  see  them  every  moment, 
it  is  the  same  exasperating  story.  They  dig  a  hole 
through  four  feet  of  packed  snow  to  nibble  the  rein- 
deer lichen  that  grows  everywhere  on  the  barrens. 
Before  it  is  half  eaten  they  wander  off  to  the  next 
barren  and-  dig  a  larger  hole ;  then  away  to  the 
woods  for  the  gray-green  hanging  moss  that  grows 
on  the  spruces.  Here  is  a  fallen  tree  half  covered 
with  the  rich  food.  Megaleep  nibbles  a  bite  or  two, 
then  wanders  away  and  away  in  search  of  another 
tree  like  the  one  he  has  just  left. 

And  when  you  find  him  at  last,  the  chances  are 
still  against  you.  You  are  stealing  forward  cau- 
tiously when  a  fresh  sign  attracts  attention.  You 


Megaleep  the  Wanderer.  7 

stop  to  examine  it  a  moment.  Something  gray,  dim, 
misty,  seems  to  drift  like  a  cloud  through  the  trees 
ahead.  You  scarcely  notice  it  till,  on  your  right,  a 
stir,  and  another  cloud,  and  another —  The  caribou, 
quick,  a  score  of  them !  But  before  your  rifle  is  up 
and  you  have  found  the  sights,  the  gray  things  melt 
into  the  gray  woods  and  drift  away ;  and  the  stalk 
begins  all  over  again. 

The  reason  for  this  restlessness  is  not  far  to  seek. 
Megaleep's  ancestors  followed  regular  migrations  in 
spring  "and  autumn,  like  the  birds,  on  the  unwooded 
plains  beyond  the  Arctic  Circle.  Megaleep  never 
migrates ;  but  the  old  instinct  is  in  him  and  will  not 
let  him  rest.  So  he  wanders  through  the  year,  and 
is  never  satisfied. 

Fortunately  nature  has  been  kind  to  Megaleep  in 
providing  him  with  means  to  gratify  his  wandering 
disposition.  In  winter,  moose  and  red  deer  must 
gather  into  yards  and  stay  there.  With  the  first 
heavy  storm  of  December,  they  gather  in  small  bands 
here  and  there  on  the  hardwood  ridges,  and  begin  to 
make  paths  in  the  snow,  —  long,  twisted,  crooked 
paths,  running  for  miles  in  every  direction,  crossing 
and  recrossing  in  a  tangle  utterly  hopeless  to  any 
head  save  that  of  a  deer  or  moose.  These  paths  they 
keep  tramped  down  and  more  or  less  open  all  winter, 


8  Wilderness  Ways. 

so  as  to  feed  on  the  twigs  and  bark  growing  on  either 
side.  Were  it  not  for  this  curious  provision,  a  single 
severe  winter  would  leave  hardly  a  moose  or  a  deer 
alive  in  the  woods ;  for  their  hoofs  are  sharp  and  sink 
deep,  and  with  six  feet  of  snow  on  a  level  they  can 
scarcely  run  half  a  mile  outside  their  paths  without 
becoming  hopelessly  stalled  or  exhausted. 

It  is  this  great  tangle  of  paths,  by  the  way,  which 
makes  a  deer  or  a  moose  yard ;  and  not  the  stupid 
hole  in  the  snow  which  is  pictured  in  the  geographies 
and  most  natural  history  books. 

But  Megaleep  the  Wanderer  makes  no  such  pro- 
vision ;  he  depends  upon  Mother  Nature  to  take  care 
of  him.  In  summer  he  is  brown,  like  the  great  tree 
trunks  among  which  he  moves  unseen.  Then  the 
frog  of  his  foot  expands  and  grows  spongy,  so  that 
he  can  cling  to  the  mountain-side  like  a  goat,  or 
move  silently  over  the  dead  leaves.  In  winter  he 
becomes  a  soft  gray,  the  better  to  fade  into  a  snow- 
storm, or  to  stand  concealed  in  plain  sight  on  the 
edges  of  the  gray,  desolate  barrens  that  he  loves. 
Then  the  frog  of  his  foot  arches  up  out  of  the  way; 
the  edges  of  his  hoof  grow  sharp  and  shell-like,  so 
that  he  can  travel  over  glare  ice  without  slipping, 
and  cut  the  crust  to  dig  down  for  the  moss  upon 
which  he  feeds.  The  hoofs,  moreover,  are  very  large 


Megaleep  the  Wanderer.  9 

and  deeply  cleft,  so  as  to  spread  widely  when  his 
weight  is  on  them.  When  you  first  find  his  track 
in  the  snow,  you  rub  your  eyes,  thinking  that  a  huge 
ox  must  have  passed  that  way.  The  dew-claws  are 
also  large,  and  the  ankle  joint  so  flexible  that  it  lets 
them  down  upon  the  snow.  So  Megaleep  has  a 
kind  of  natural  snowshoe  with  which  he  moves  easily 
over  the  crust,  and,  except  in  very  deep,  soft  snows, 
wanders  at  will,  while  other  deer  are  prisoners  in 
their  yards.  It  is  the  snapping  of  these  loose  hoofs 
and  ankle  joints  that  makes  the  merry  clacking  sound 
as  caribou  run. 

Sometimes,  however,  they  overestimate  their  abili- 
ties, and  their  wandering  disposition  brings  them  into 
trouble.  Once  I  found  a  herd  of  seven  up  to  their 
backs  in  soft  snow,  and  tired  out, — a  strange  condition 
for  a  caribou  to  be  in.  They  were  taking  the  affair 
philosophically,  resting  till  they  should  gather  strength 
to  flounder  to  some  spruce  tops  where  moss  was  plenty. 
When  I  approached  gently  on  snowshoes  (I  had  been 
hunting  them  diligently  the  week  before  to  kill  them  ; 
but  this  put  a  different  face  on  the  matter)  they 
gave  a  bound  or  two,  then  settled  deep  in  the  snow, 
and  turned  their  heads  and  said  with  their  great  soft 
eyes :  "  You  have  hunted  us.  Here  we  are,  at  your 
mercy." 


10  Wilderness  Ways. 

They  were  very  much  frightened  at  first ;  then  I 
thought  they  grew  a  bit  curious,  as  I  sat  down  peace- 
ably in  the  snow  to  watch  them.  One  —  a  doe,  more 
exhausted' than  the  others,  and  famished  —  even  nib- 
bled a  bit  of  moss  that  I  pushed  near  her  with  a  stick. 
I  had  picked  it  with  gloves,  so  that  the  smell  of  my 
hand  was  not  on  it.  After  an  hour  or  so,  if  I  moved 
softly,  they  let  me  approach  quite  up  to  them  with- 
out shaking  their  antlers  or  renewing  their  desperate 
attempts  to  flounder  away.  But  I  did  not  touch  them. 
That  is  a  degradation  which  no  wild  creature  will  per- 
mit when  he  is  free ;  and  I  would  not  take  advantage 
of  their  helplessness. 

Did  they  starve  in  the  snow  ?  you  ask.  Oh,  no ! 
I  went  to 'the  place  next  day  and  found  that  they 
had  gained  the  spruce  tops,  ploughing  through  the 
snow  in  great  bounds,  following  the  track  of  the 
strongest,  which  went  ahead  to  break  the  way.  There 
they  fed  and  rested,  then  went  to  some  dense  thickets 
where  they  passed  the  night.  In  a  day  or  two  the 
snow  settled  and  hardened,  and  they  took  to  their 
wandering  again. 

Later,  in  hunting,  I  crossed  their  tracks  several  times, 
and  once  I  saw  them  across  a  barren  ;  but  I  left  them 
undisturbed,  to  follow  other  trails.  We  had  eaten 
together ;  they  had  fed  from  my  hand ;  and  there 


Megaleep  the  Wanderer.  1 1 

is  no  older  truce  on  earth  than  that,  not  even  in  the 
unchanging  East,  where  it  originated. 

Megaleep  in  a  storm  is  a  most  curious  creature,  the 
nearest  thing  to  a  ghost  to  be  found  in  the  woods. 
More  than  other  animals  he  feels  the  falling  barom- 
eter. His  movements  at  such  times  drive  you  to  des- 
peration, if  you  are  following  him;  for  he  wanders 
unceasingly.  When  the  storm  breaks  he  has  a  way 
of  appearing  suddenly,  as  if  he  were  seeking  you, 
when  by  his  trail  you  thought  him  miles  ahead.  And 
the  way  he  disappears  —  just  melts  into  the  thick  driv- 
ing flakes  and  the  shrouded  trees  —  is  most  uncanny. 
Six  or  seven  caribou  once  played  hide-and-seek  with 
me  that  way,  giving  me  vague  glimpses  here  and 
there,  drawing  near  to  get  my  scent,  yet  keeping  me 
looking  up  wind  into  the  driving  snow  where  I  could 
see  nothing  distinctly.  And  all  the  while  they  drifted 
about  like  so  many  huge  flakes  of  the  storm,  watching 
my  every  movement,  seeing  me  perfectly. 

At  such  times  they  fear  little,  and  even  lay  aside 
their  usual  caution.  I  remember  trailing  a  large 
herd  one  day  from  early  morning,  keeping  near  them 
all  the  time,  and  jumping  them  half  a  dozen  times, 
yet  never  getting  a  glimpse  because  of  their  extreme 
watchfulness.  For  some  reason  they  were  unwilling 
to  leave  a  small  chain  of  barrens.  Perhaps  they 


12  Wilderness  Ways. 

knew  the  storm  was  coming,  when  they  would  be 
safe  ;  and  so,  instead  of  swinging  off  into  a  ten-mile 
straightaway  trot  at  the  first  alarm,  they  kept  dodging 
back  and'forth  within  a  two-mile  circle.  At  last,  late 
in  the  afternoon,  I  followed  the  trail  to  the  edge  of 
dense  evergreen  thickets.  Caribou  generally  rest  in 
open  woods  or  on  the  windward  edge  of  a  barren. 
Eyes  for  the  open,  nose  for  the  cover,  is  their  motto. 
And  I  thought,  "  They  know  perfectly  well  I  am  fol- 
lowing them,  and  so  have  lain  down  in  that  tangle. 
If  I  go  in,  they  will  hear  me  ;  a  wood  mouse  could 
hardly  keep  quiet  in  such  a  place.  If  I  go  round, 
they  will  catch  my  scent ;  if  I  wait,  so  will  they ;  if 
I  jump  them,  the  scrub  will  cover  their  retreat 
perfectly." 

As  I  sat  down  in  the  snow  to  think  it  over,  a  heavy 
rush  deep  within  the  thicket  told  me  that  something, 
not  I  certainly,  had  again  started  them.  Suddenly 
the  air  darkened,  and  above  the  excitement  of  the 
hunt  I  felt  the  storm  coming.  A  storm  in  the  woods 
is  no  joke  when  you  are  six  miles  from  camp  without 
axe  or  blanket.  I  broke  away  from  the  trail  and 
started  for  the  head  of  the  second  barren  on  the  run. 
If  I  could  make  that,  I  was  safe  ;  for  there  was  a 
stream  near,  which  led  near  to  camp;  and  one  cannot 
very  well  lose  a  stream,  even  in  a  snowstorm.  But 


Megaleep  the  Wanderer.  13 

before  I  was  halfway  the  flakes  were  driving  thick 
and  soft  in  my  face.  Another  half-mile,  and  one 
could  not  see  fifty  feet  in  any  direction.  Still  I  kept 
on,  holding  my  course  by  the  wind  and  my  compass. 
Then,  at  the  foot  of  the  second  barren,  my  snowshoes 
stumbled  into  great  depressions  in  the  snow,  and  I 
found  myself  on  the  fresh  trail  of  my  caribou  again. 
"  If  I  am  lost,  I  will  at  least  have  a  caribou  steak,  and 
a  skin  to  wrap  me  up  in,"  I  said,  and  plunged  after 
them.  As  I  went,  the  old  Mother  Goose  rhyme  of 
nursery  days  came  back  and  set  itself  to  hunting 
music  : 

Bye,  baby  bunting, 

Daddy  's  gone  a-hunting, 

For. to  catch  a  rabbit  skin 

To  wrap  the  baby  bunting  in. 

Presently  I  began  to  sing  it  aloud.  It  cheered  one 
up  in  the  storm,  and  the  lilt  of  it  kept  time  to  the 
leaping  kind  of  gallop  which  is  the  easiest  way  to 
run  on  snowshoes :  "  Bye,  baby  bunting ;  bye,  baby 
bunting-  Hello!" 

A  dark  mass  loomed  suddenly  up  before  me  on  the 
open  barren.  The  storm  lightened  a  bit,  before  set- 
ting in  heavier;  and  there  were  the  caribou  just  in 
front  of  me,  standing  in  a  compact  mass,  the  weaker 
ones  in  the  middle.  They  had  no  thought  nor  fear 


14  Wilderness  Ways. 

of  me  apparently ;  they  showed  no  sign  of  anger  or 
uneasiness.  Indeed,  they  barely  moved  aside  as  I 
snowshoed  up,  in  plain  sight,  without  any  precaution 
whatever.-  And  these  were  the  same  animals  that 
had  fled  upon  my  approach  at  daylight,  and  that  had 
escaped  me  all  clay  with  marvelous  cunning. 

As  with  other  deer,  the  storm  is  Megaleep's  natural 
protector.  When  it  comes  he  thinks  that  he  is  safe ; 
that  nobody  can  see  him ;  that  the  falling  snow  will 
fill  his  tracks  and  kill  his  scent ;  and  that  whatever 
follows  must  speedily  seek  cover  for  itself.  So  he 
gives  up  watching,  and  lies  down  where  he  will.  So 
far  as  his  natural  enemies  are  concerned,  he  is  safe 
in  this ;  for  lynx  and  wolf  and  panther  seek  shelter 
with  a  falling  barometer.  They  can  neither  see  nor 
smell ;  and  they  are  all  afraid.  I  have  often  noticed 
that  among  all  animals  and  birds,  from  the  least  to 
the  greatest,  there  is  always  a  truce  when  the  storms 
are  out. 

But  the  most  curious  thing  I  ever  stumbled  into  was 
a  caribou  school.  That  sounds  queer ;  but  it  is  more 
common  in  the  wilderness  than  one  thinks.  All 
gregarious  animals  have  perfectly  well  defined  social 
regulations,  which  the  young  must  learn  and  respect. 
To  learn  them,  they  go  to  school  in  their  own 
interesting  way. 


Megaleep  the  Wanderer.  15 

The  caribou  I  am  speaking  of  now  are  all  wood- 
land caribou  —  larger,  finer  animals  every  way  than 
the  barren-ground  caribou  of  the  desolate  unwooded 
regions  farther  north.  In  summer  they  live  singly, 
rearing  their  young  in  deep  forest  seclusions.  There 
each  one  does  as  he  pleases.  So  when  you  meet  a 
caribou  in  summer,  he  is  a  different  creature,  and 
has  more  unknown  and  curious  ways  than  when  he 
runs  with  the  herd  in  midwinter.  I  remember  a 
solitary  old  bull  that  lived  on  the  mountain-side 
opposite  my  camp  one  summer,  a  most  interesting 
mixture  of  fear  and  boldness,  of  reserve  and  intense 
curiosity.  After  I  had  hunted  him  a  few  times,  and 
he  found  that  my  purpose  was  wholly  peaceable,  he 
took  to  hunting  me  in  the  same  way,  just  to  find  out 
who  I  was,  and  what  queer  thing  I  was  doing.  Some- 
times I  would  see  him  at  sunset  on  a  dizzy  cliff  across 
the  lake,  watching  for  the  curl  of  smoke  or  the  coming 
of  a  canoe.  And  when  I  dove  in  for  a  swim  and  went 
splashing,  dog-paddle  way,  about  the  island  where  my 
tent  was,  he  would  walk  about  in  the  greatest  excite- 
ment, and  start  a  dozen  times  to  come  down;  but 
always  he  ran  back  for  another  look,  as  if  fascinated. 
Again  he  would  come  down  on  a  burned  point  near 
the  deep  hole  where  I  was  fishing,  and,  hiding  his 
body  in  the  underbrush,  would  push  his  horns  up 


1 6  Wilderness  Ways. 

into  the  bare  branches  of  a  withered  shrub,  so  as  to 
make  them  inconspicuous,  and  stand  watching  me. 
As  long  as  he  was  quiet,  it  was  impossible  to  see  him 
there  ;  but  I  could  always  make  him  start  nervously 
by  flashing  a  looking-glass,  or  flopping  a  fish  in  the 
water,  or  whistling  a  jolly  Irish  jig.  And  when  I  tied 
a  bright  tomato  can  to  a  string  and  set  it  whirling 
round  my  head,  or  set  my  handkerchief  for  a  flag  on 
the  end  of  my  trout  rod,  then  he  could  not  stand  it 
another  minute,  but  came  running  down  to  the  shore, 
to  stamp,  and  fidget,  and  stare  nervously,  and  scare 
himself  with  twenty  alarms  while  trying  to  make  up 
his  mind  to  swim  out  and  satisfy  his  burning  desire 
to  know  all  about  it.  But  I  am  forgetting  the  caribou 
schools. 

Wherever  there  are  barrens  —  treeless  , plains  in 
the  midst  of  dense  forest  —  the  caribou  collect  in 
small  herds  as  winter  comes  on,  following  the  old 
gregarious  instinct.  Then  each  one  cannot  do  as 
he  pleases  any  more ;  and  it  is  for  this  winter  and 
spring  life  together,  when  laws  must  be  known,  and 
the  rights  of  the  individual  be  laid  aside  for  the  good 
of  the  herd,  that  the  young  are  trained. 

One  afternoon  in  late  summer  I  was  drifting  down 
the  Toledi  River,  casting  for  trout,  when  a  movement 
in  the  bushes  ahead  caught  my  attention.  A  great 


Megaleep  the  Wanderer.  17 

swampy  tract  of  ground,  covered  with  grass  and  low 
brush,  spread  out  on  either  side  the  stream.  From 
the  canoe  I  made  out  two  or  three  waving  lines  of 
bushes  where  some  animals  were  making  their  way 
through  the  swamp  towards  a  strip  of  big  timber 
which  formed  a  kind  of  island  in  the  middle. 

Pushing  my  canoe  into  the  grass,  I  made  for  a 
point  just  astern  of  the  nearest  quivering  line  of 
bushes.  A  glance  at  a  bit  of  soft  ground  showed 
me  the  trail  of  a  mother  caribou  with  her  calf.  I 
followed  cautiously,  the  wind  being  ahead  in  my 
favor.  They  were  not  hurrying,  and  I  took  good 
pains  not  to  alarm  them. 

When  I  reached  the  timber  and  crept  like  a  snake 
through  the  underbrush,  there  were  the  caribou,  five 
or  six  mother  animals,  and  nearly  twice  as  many  little 
ones,  well  grown,  which  had  evidently  just  come  in 
from  all  directions.  They  were  gathered  in  a  natural 
opening,  fairly  clear  of  bushes,  with  a  fallen  tree  or 
two,  which  served  a  good  purpose  later.  The  sun- 
light fell  across  it  in  great  golden  bars,  making  light 
and  shadow  to  play  in  ;  all  around  was  the  great 
marsh,  giving  protection  from  enemies ;  dense  under- 
brush screened  them  from  prying  eyes  —  and  this 
was  their  schoolroom. 

The  little  ones  were  pushed  out  into  the  middle, 


1 8  Wilderness  Ways. 

away  from  the  mothers  to  whom  they  clung  instinc- 
tively, and  were  left  to  get  acquainted  with  each 
other,  which  they  did  very  shyly  at  first,  like  so  many 
strange  children.  It  was  all  new  and  curious,  this 
meeting  of  their  kind ;  for  till  now  they  had  lived  in 
dense  solitudes,  each  one  knowing  no  living  creature 
save  its  own  mother.  Some  were  timid,  and  backed 
away  as  far  as  possible  into  the  shadow,  looking  with 
wild,  wide  eyes  from  one  to  another  of  the  little 
caribou,  and  bolting  to  their  mothers'  sides  at  every 
unusual  movement.  Others  were  bold,  and  took  to 
butting  at  the  first  encounter.  But  careful,  kindly 
eyes  watched  over  them.  Now  and  then  a  mother 
caribou  would  come  from  the  shadows  and  push  a 
little  one  gently  from  his  retreat  under  a  bush  out 
into  the  company.  Another  would  push  her  way 
between  two  heads  that  lowered  at  each  other  threat- 
eningly, and  say  with  a  warning  shake  of  her  head 
that  butting  was  no  good  way  to  get  along  together. 
I  had  once  thought,  watching  a  herd  on  the  barrens 
through  my  glasses,  that  they  are  the  gentlest  of  ani- 
mals with  each  other.  Here  in  the  little  school  in 
the  heart  of  the  swamp  I  found  the  explanation  of 
things. 

For  over  an  hour  I  lay  there  and  watched,  my  curi- 
osity growing  more  eager  every  moment;  for  most 


Megaleep  the  Wanderer.  19 

of  what  I  saw  I  could  not  comprehend,  having  no 
key,  .nor  understanding  why  certain  youngsters,  who 
needed  reproof  according  to  my  standards,  were  let 
alone,  and  others  kept  moving  constantly,  and  still 
others  led  aside  often  to  be  talked  to  by  their  mothers. 
But  at  last  came  a  lesson  in  which  all  joined,  and 
which  could  not  be  misunderstood,  not  even  by  a 
man.  It  was  the  jumping  lesson. 

Caribou  are  naturally  poor  jumpers.  Beside  a  deer, 
who  often  goes  out  of  his  way  to  jump  a  fallen  tree 
just  for  the  fun  of  it,  they  have  no  show  whatever ; 
though  they  can  travel  much  farther  in  a  day  and 
much  easier.  Their  gait  is  a  swinging  trot,  from 
which  it  is  impossible  to  jump;  and  if  you  frighten 
them  out  of  their  trot  into  a  gallop  and  keep  them 
at  it,  they  soon  grow  exhausted.  Countless  genera- 
tions on  the  northern  wastes,  where  there  is  no  need 
of  jumping,  have  bred  this  habit,  and  modified  their 
muscles  accordingly.  But  now  a  race  of  caribou  has 
moved  south  into  the  woods,  where  great  trees  lie 
fallen  across  the  way,  and  where,  if  Megaleep  is  in  a 
hurry  or  there  is  anybody  behind  him,  jumping  is 
a  necessity.  Still  he  does  n't  like  it,  and  avoids  it 
whenever  possible.  The  little  ones,  left  to  them- 
selves, would  always  crawl  under  a  tree,  or  trot 
round  it.  And  this  is  another  thing  to  overcome, 


2O  Wilderness  Ways. 

and  another  lesson  to  be  taught  in  the  caribou 
school. 

As  I  watched  them  the  mothers  all  came  out  from 
the  shadows  and  began  trotting  round  the  opening, 
the  little  ones  keeping  close  as  possible,  each  one  to 
its  mother's  side.  Then  the  old  ones  went  faster ;  the 
calves  were  left  in  a  long  line  stringing  out  behind. 
Suddenly  the  leader  veered  in  to  the  edge  of  the  tim- 
ber and  went  over  a  fallen  tree  with  a  jump  ;  the  cows 
followed  splendidly,  rising  on  one  side,  falling  grace- 
fully on  the  other,  like  gray  waves  racing  past  the  end 
of  a  jetty.  But  the  first  little  one  dropped  his  head 
obstinately  at  the  tree  and  stopped  short.  The  next 
one  did  the  same  thing ;  only  he  ran  his  head  into  the 
first  one's  legs  and  knocked  them  out  from  under  him. 
The  others  whirled  with  a  ba-a-a-ah,  and  scampered 
round  the  tree  and  up  to  their  mothers,  who  had 
turned  now  and  stood  watching  anxiously  to  see  the 
effect  of  their  lesson.  Then  it  began  over  again. 

It  was  true  kindergarten  teaching ;  for  under  guise 
of  a  frolic  the  calves  were  being  taught  a  needful  les- 
son,—  not  only  to  jump,  but,  far  more  important  than 
that,  to  follow  a  leader,  and  to  go  where  he  goes  with- 
out question  or  hesitation.  For  the  leaders  on  the 
barrens  are  wise  old  bulls  that  make  no  mistakes. 
Most  of  the  little  caribou  took  to  the  sport  very  well, 


Megaleep  the  Wanderer.  21 

and  presently  followed  the  mothers  over  the  low  hur- 
dles. But  a  few  were  timid ;  and  then  came  the  most 
intensely  interesting  bit  of  the  whole  strange  school, 
when  a  little  one  would  be  led  to  a  tree  and  butted 
from  behind  till  he  took  the  jump. 

There  was  no  "  consent  of  the  governed "  in  that 
governing.  The  mother  knew,  and  the  calf  did  n't, 
just  what  was  good  for  him. 

It  was  this  last  lesson  that  broke  up  the  school. 
Just  in  front  of  my  hiding  place  a  tree  fell  out  into 
the  opening.  A  mother  caribou  brought  her  calf  up 
to  this  unsuspectingly,  and  leaped  over,  expecting  the 
little  one  to  follow.  As  she  struck  she  whirled  like  a 
top  and  stood  like  a  beautiful  statue,  her  head  point- 
ing in  my  direction.  Her  eyes  were  bright  with  fear, 
the  ears  set  forward,  the  nostrils  spread  to  catch  every 
tainted  atom  from  the  air.  Then  she  turned  and 
glided  silently  away,  the  little  one  close  to  her  side, 
looking  up  and  touching  her  frequently  as  if  to  whis- 
per, What  is  it?  what  is  it?  but  making  no  sound. 
There  was  no  signal  given,  no  alarm  of  any  kind  that 
I  could  understand ;  yet  the  lesson  stopped  instantly. 
The  caribou  glided  away  like  shadows.  Over  across 
the  opening  a  bush  swayed  here  and  there  ;  a  leaf 
quivered  as  if  something  touched  its  branch.  Then 
the  schoolroom  was  empty  and  the  woods  all  still. 


12  Wilderness  Ways. 

There  is  another  curious  habit  of  Megaleep ;  and 
this  one  I  am  utterly  at  a  loss  to  account  for.  When 
he  is  old  and  feeble,  and  the  tireless  muscles  will  no 
longer  carry  him  with  the  herd  over  the  wind-swept 
barrens,  and  he  falls  sick  at  last,  he  goes  to  a  spot  far 
away  in  the  woods,  where  generations  of  his  ancestors 
have  preceded  him,  and  there  lays  him  down  to  die. 
It  is  the  caribou  burying  ground ;  and  all  the  animals 
of  a  certain  district,  or  a  certain  herd  (I  am  unable  to 
tell  which),  will  go  there  when  sick  or  sore  wounded, 
if  they  have  strength  enough  to  reach  the  spot.  For 
it  is  far  away  from  the  scene  of  their  summer  homes 
and  their  winter  wanderings. 

I  know  one  such  place,  and  visited  it  twice  from 
my  summer  camp.  It  is  in  a  dark  tamarack  swamp 
by  a  lonely  lake  at  the  head  of  the  Little-South-West 
Miramichi  River,  in  New  Brunswick.  I  found  it  one 
summer  when  trying  to  force  my  way  from  the  big 
lake  to  a  smaller  one,  where  trout  were  plenty.  In 
the  midst  of  the  swamp  I  stumbled  upon  a  pair 
of  caribou  skeletons,  which  surprised  me ;  for  there 
were  no  hunters  within  a- hundred  miles,  and  at  that 
time  the  lake  had  lain  for  many  years  unvisited.  I 
thought  of  fights  between  bucks,  and  bull  moose, 
how  two  bulls  will  sometimes  lock  horns  in  a  rush, 
and  are  too  weakened  to  break  the  lock,  and  so  die 


Megaleep  the  Wanderer.  23 

together  of  exhaustion.  Caribou  are  more  peaceable ; 
they  rarely  fight  that  way ;  and,  besides,  the  horns 
here  were  not  locked  together,  but  lying  well  apart. 
As  I  searched  about,  looking  for  the  explanation  of 
things,  thinking  of  wolves,  yet  wondering  why  the 
bones  were  not  gnawed,  I  found  another  skeleton, 
much  older,  then  four  or  five  more ;  some  quite  fresh, 
others  crumbling  into  mould.  Bits  of  old  bone  and 
some  splendid  antlers  were  scattered  here  and  there 
through  the  underbrush ;  and  when  I  scraped  away 
the  dead  leaves  and  moss,  there  were  older  bones  and 
fragments  mouldering  beneath. 

I  scarcely  understood  the  meaning  of  it  at  the 
time  ;  but  since  then  I  have  met  men,  Indians  and 
hunters,  who  have  spent  much  time  in  the  wilderness, 
who  speak  of  "  bone  yards "  which  they  have  dis- 
covered, places  where  they  can  go  at  any  time  and 
be  sure  of  finding  a  good  set  of  caribou  antlers. 
And  they  say  that  the  caribou  go  there  to  die. 

All  animals,  when  feeble  with  age,  or  sickly,  or 
wounded,  have  the  habit  of  going  away  deep  into 
the  loneliest  coverts,  and  there  lying  down  where 
the  leaves  shall  presently  cover  them.  So  that  one 
rarely  finds  a  dead  bird  or  animal  in  the  woods 
where  thousands  die  yearly.  Even  your  dog,  that 
was  born  and  lived  by  your  house,  often  disappears 


24  Wilderness  Ways. 

when  you  thought  him  too  feeble  to  walk.  Death 
calls  him  gently ;  the  old  wolf  stirs  deep  within  him, 
and  he  goes  away  where  the  master  he  served  will 
never  find  him.  And  so  with  your  cat,  which  is 
only  skin-deep  a  domestic  animal ;  and  so  with  your 
canary,  which  in  death  alone  would  be  free,  and  beats 
his  failing  wings  against  the  cage  in  which  he  lived 
so  long  content.  But  these  all  go  away  singly,  each 
to  his  own  place.  The  caribou  is  the  only  animal  I 
know  that  remembers,  when  his  separation  comes,  the 
ties  which  bound  him  to  the  herd  winter  after  winter, 
through  sun  and  storm,  in  the  forest  where  all  was 
peace  and  plenty,  and  on  the  lonely  barrens  where  the 
gray  wolf  howled  on  his  track ;  so  that  he  turns  with 
his  last  strength  from  the  herd  he  is  leaving  to  the 
greater  herd  which  has  gone  before  him  —  still  follow- 
ing his  leaders,  remembering  his  first  lesson  to  the  end. 
Sometimes  I  have  wondered  whether  this  also  were 
taught  in  the  caribou  school ;  whether  once  in  his 
life  Megaleep  were  led  to  the  spot  and  made  to  pass 
through  it,  so  that  he  should  feel  its  meaning  and 
remember.  That  is  not  likely ;  for  the  one  thing 
which  an  animal  cannot  understand  is  death.  And 
there  were  no  signs  of  living  caribou  anywhere  near 
the  place  that  I  discovered ;  though  down  at  the 
other  end  of  the  lake  their  tracks  were  everywhere. 


Megaleep  the  Wanderer.  25 

There  are  other  questions,  which  one  can  only  ask 
without  answering.  Is  this  silent  gathering  merely 
a  tribute  to  the  old  law  of  the  herd,  or  does  Mega- 
leep, with  his  last  strength,  still  think  to  cheat  his  old 
enemy,  and  go  away  where  the  wolf  that  followed  him 
all  his  life  shall  not  find  him  ?  How  was  his  resting 
place  first  selected,  and  what  leaders  searched  out  the 
ground  ?  What  sound  or  sign,  what  murmur  of  wind 
in  the  pines,  or  lap  of  ripples  on  the  shore,  or  song  of 
the  veery  at  twilight  made  them  pause  and  say,  Here 
is  the  place  ?  How  does  he  know,  he  whose  thoughts 
are  all  of  life,  and  who  never  looked  on  death,  where 
the  great  silent  herd  is  that  no  caribou  ever  sees  but 
once  ?  And  what  strange  instinct  guides  Megaleep 
to  the  spot  where  all  his  wanderings  end  at  last  ? 


II.  KILLOOLEET,  LITTLE  SWEET-VOICE. 

HE  day  was  cold,  the  woods 
were  wet,  and  the  weather 
was  beastly  altogether  when  Kil- 
looleet  first  came  and  sang  on  my 
ridgepole.  The  fishing  was  poor 
down  in  the  big  lake,  and  there 
were  signs  of  civilization  here 
and  there,  in  the  shape  of  set- 
tlers' cabins,  which  we  did  not 
like ;  so  we  had  pushed  up  river, 
Simmo  and  I,  thirty  miles  in  the 
rain,  to  a  favorite  camping  ground 

on  a  smaller  lake,  where  we  had  the  wilderness  all  to 
ourselves. 

The  rain  was  still  falling,  and  the  lake  white- 
capped,  and  the  forest  all  misty  and  wind-blown 
when  we  ran  our  canoes  ashore  by  the  old  cedar 
that  marked  our  landing  place.  First  we  built  a 
big  fire  to  dry  some  boughs  to  sleep  upon ;  then  we 
built  our  houses,  Simmo  a  bark  commoosie,  and  I  a 

little  tent ;  and  I  was  inside,  getting  dry  clothes  out 

26 


Killooleet ,  Little  Sweet -Voice.  27 

of  a  rubber  bag,  when  I  heard  a  white-throated  spar- 
row calling  cheerily  his  Indian  name,  O  hear,  sweet 
Killooleet-lillooleet-lillooleet !  And  the  sound  was  so 
sunny,  so  good  to  hear  in  the  steady  drip  of  rain  on 
the  roof,  that  I  went  out  to  see  the  little  fellow  who 
had  bid  us  welcome  to  the  wilderness. 

Simmo  had  heard  too.  He  was  on  his  hands  and 
knees,  just  his  dark  face  peering  by  the  corner  stake 
of  his  commoosie,  so  as  to  see  better  the  little  singer 
on  my  tent.  —  "  Have  better  weather  and  better  luck 
now.  Killooleet  sing  on  ridgepole,"  he  said  confi- 
dently. Then  we  spread  some  cracker  crumbs  for 
the  guest  and  turned  in  to  sleep  till  better  times. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  a  long  acquaintance. 
It  was  also  the  first  of  many  social  calls  from  a  whole 
colony  of  white-throats  (Tom-Peabody  birds)  that 
lived  on  the  mountain-side  just  behind  my  tent,  and 
that  came  one  by  one  to  sing  to  us,  and  to  get 
acquainted,  and  to  share  our  crumbs.  Sometimes, 
too,  in  rainy  weather,  when  the  woods  seemed  wetter 
than  the  lake,  and  Simmo  would  be  sleeping  philo- 
sophically, and  I  reading,  or  tying  trout  flies  in  the 
tent,  I  would  hear  a  gentle  stir  and  a  rustle  or  two 
just  outside,  under  the  tent  fly.  Then,  if  I  crept  out 
quietly,  I  would  find  Killooleet  exploring  my  goods 
to  find  where  the  crackers  grew,  or  just  resting 


28  Wilderness  Ways. 

contentedly  under  the  fly  where  it  was  dry  and 
comfortable. 

It  was  good  to  live  there  among  them,  with  the 
mountain  'at  our  backs  and  the  lake  at  our  feet,  and 
peace  breathing  in  every  breeze  or  brooding  silently 
over  the  place  at  twilight.  Rain  or  shine,  day  or 
night,  these  white-throated  sparrows  are  the  sunniest, 
cheeriest  folk  to  be  found  anywhere  in  the  woods.  I 
grew  to  understand  and  love  the  Milicete  name,  Kil- 
looleet,  Little  Sweet-Voice,  for  its  expressiveness. 
"  Hour-Bird  "  the  Micmacs  call  him  ;  for  they  say  he 
sings  every  hour,  and  so  tells  the  time,  "  all  same  's 
one  white  man's  watch."  And  indeed  there  is  rarely 
an  hour,  day  or  night,  in  the  northern  woods  when 
you  cannot  hear  Killooleet  singing.  Other  birds 
grow  silent  after  they  have  won  their  mates,  or  they 
grow  fat  and  lazy  as  summer  advances,  or  absorbed 
in  the  care  of  '  their  young,  and  have  no  time  nor 
thought  for  singing.  But  not  so  Killooleet.  He  is 
kinder  to  his  mate  after  he  has  won  her,  and  never  lets 
selfishness  or  the  summer  steal  away  his  music ;  for 
he  knows  that  the  woods  are  brighter  for  his  singing. 

Sometimes,  at  night,  I  would  take  a  brand  from  the 
fire,  and  follow  a  deer  path  that  wound  about  the 
mountain,  or  steal  away  into  a  dark  thicket  and  strike 
a  parlor  match.  As  the  flame  shot  up,  lighting  its 


Killooleet,  Little  Sweet -Voice.  29 

little  circle  of  waiting  leaves,  there  would  be  a  stir 
beside  me  in  the  underbrush,  or  overhead  in  the  fir ; 
then  tinkling  out  of  the  darkness,  like  a  brook  under 
the  snow,  would  come  the  low  clear  strain  of  melody 
that  always  set  my  heart  a-dancing,  —  I'm  here,  sweet 
Killooleet-lillooleet-lillooleet,  the  good-night  song  of  my 
gentle  neighbor.  Then  along  the  path  a  little  way, 
and  another  match,  and  another  song  to  make  one 
better  and  his  rest  sweeter. 

By  day  I  used  to  listen  to  them,  hours  long  at  a 
stretch,  practicing  to  perfect  their  song.  These  were 
the  younger  birds,  of  course ;  and  for  a  long  time 
they  puzzled  me.  Those  who  know  Killooleet's  song 
will  remember  that  it  begins  with  three  clear  sweet 
notes ;  but  very  few  have  observed  the  break  between 
the  second  and  third  of  these.  I  noticed,  first  of  all, 
that  certain  birds  would  start  the  song  twenty  times 
in  succession,  yet  never  get  beyond  the  second  note. 
And  when  I  crept  up,  to  find  out  about  it,  I  would 
find  them  sitting  disconsolately,  deep  in  shadow, 
instead  of  out  in  the  light  where  they  love  to  sing, 
with  a  pitiful  little  droop  of  wings  and  tail,  and  the 
air  of  failure  and  dejection  in  every  movement.  Then 
again  these  same  singers  would  touch  the  third  note, 
and  always  in  such  cases  they  would  prolong  the 
last  trill,  the  lillooleet-lillooleet  (the  Peabody-Peabody, 


30  Wilderness  Ways. 

as  some  think  of  it),  to  an  indefinite  length,  instead 
of  stopping  at  the  second  or  third  repetition,  which 
is  the  rule  with  good  singers.  Then  they  would 
come  out  of  the  shadow,  and  stir  about  briskly,  and 
sing  again  with  an  air  of  triumph. 

One  day,  while  lying  still  in  the  underbrush  watch- 
ing a  wood  mouse,  Killooleet,  a  fine  male  bird  and  a 
perfect  singer,  came  and  sang  on  a  branch  just  over 
my  head,  not  noticing  me.  Then  I  discovered  that 
there  is  a  trill,  a  tiny  grace  note  or  yodel,  at  the  end 
of  his  second  note.  I  listened  carefully  to  other 
singers,  as  close  as  I  could  get,  and  found  that  it  is 
always  there,  and  is  the  one  difficult  part  of  the  song. 
You  must  be  very  close  to  the  bird  to  appreciate  the 
beauty  of  this  little  yodel ;  for  ten  feet  away  it  sounds 
like  a  faint  cluck  interrupting  the  flow  of  the  third 
note ;  and  a  little  farther  away  you  cannot  hear  it 
at  all. 

Whatever  its  object,  Killooleet  regards  this  as  the 
indispensable  part  of  his  song,  and  never  goes  on  to 
the  third  note  unless  he  gets  the  second  perfectly. 
That  accounts  for  the  many  times  when  one  hears 
only  the  first  two  notes.  That  accounts  also  for  the 
occasional  prolonged  trill  which  one  hears ;  for  when 
a  young  bird  has  tried  many  times  for  his  grace  note 
without  success,  and  then  gets  it  unexpectedly,  he  is 


He  had  mastered  the  trill  perfectly 


Killooleet,  Little  Sweet -Voice.  31 

so  pleased  with  himself  that  he  forgets  he  is  not 
Whippoorwill,  who  tries  to  sing  as  long  as  the  brook 
without  stopping,  and  so  keeps  up  the  final  lillooleet- 
lillooleet  as  long  as  he  has  an  atom  of  breath  left  to 
do  it  with. 

But  of  all  the  Killooleets,  —  and  there  were  many 
that  I  soon  recognized,  either  by  their  songs,  or  by 
some  peculiarity  in  their  striped  caps  or  brown  jackets, 
—  the  most  interesting  was  the  one  who  first  perched 
on  my  ridgepole  and  bade  me  welcome  to  his  camp- 
ing ground.  I  soon  learned  to  distinguish  him  easily  ; 
his  cap  was  very  bright,  and  his  white  cravat  very 
full,  and  his  song  never  stopped  at  the  second  note,  for 
he  had  mastered  the  trill  perfectly.  Then,  too,  he  was 
more  friendly  and  fearless  than  all  the  others.  The 
morning  after  our  arrival  (it  was  better  weather,  as 
Simmo  and  Killooleet  had  predicted)  we  were  eating 
breakfast  by  the  fire,  when  he  lit  on  the  ground  close 
by,  and  turned  his  head  sidewise  to  look  at  us  curi- 
ously. I  tossed  him  a  big  crumb,  which  made  him 
run  away  in  fright ;  but  when  he  thought  we  were  not 
looking  he  stole  back,  touched,  tasted,  ate  the  whole 
of  it.  And  when  I  threw  him  another  crumb,  he 
hopped  to  meet  it. 

After  that  he  came  regularly  to  meals,  and  would 
look  critically  over  the  tin  plate  which  I  placed  at  my 


32  Wilderness  Ways. 

feet,  and  pick  and  choose  daintily  from  the  cracker 
and  trout  and  bacon  and  porridge  which  I  offered 
him.  Soon  he  began  to  take  bits  away  with  him, 
and  I  could  hear  him,  just  inside  the  fringe  of  under- 
brush, persuading  his  mate  to  come  too  and  share  his 
plate.  But  she  was  much  shyer  than  he ;  it  was  sev- 
eral days  before  I  noticed  her  flitting  in  and  out  of 
the  shadowy  underbrush ;  and  when  I  tossed  her  the 
first  crumb,  she  flew  away  in  a  terrible  fright.  Gradu- 
ally, however,  Killooleet  persuaded  her  that  we  were 
kindly,  and  she  came  often  to  meals ;  but  she  would 
never  come  near,  to  eat  from  my  tin  plate,  till  after  I 
had  gone  away. 

Never  a  day  now  passed  that  one  or  both  of  the 
birds  did  not  rest  on  my  tent.  When  I  put  my  head 
out,  like  a  turtle  out  of  his  shell,  in  the  early  morning 
to  look  at  the  weather,  Killooleet  would  look  down 
from  the  projecting  end  of  the  ridgepole  and  sing  good- 
morning.  And  when  I  had  been  out  late  on  the  lake, 
night-fishing,  or  following  the  inlet  for  beaver,  or 
watching  the  grassy  points  for  caribou,  or  just  drift- 
ing along  shore  silently  to  catch  the  night  sounds  and 
smells  of  the  woods,  I  would  listen  with  childish  anti- 
cipation for  Killooleet's  welcome  as  I  approached  the 
landing.  He  had  learned  to  recognize  the  sounds  of 
my  coming,  the  rub  of  a  careless  paddle,  the  ripple 


Killooleet,  Little  Sweet -Voice.  33 

of  water  under  the  bow,  or  the  grating  of  pebbles  on 
the  beach  ;  and  with  Simmo  asleep,  and  the  fire  low, 
it  was  good  to  be  welcomed  back  by  a  cheery  little 
voice  in  the  darkness ;  for  he  always  sang  when  he 
heard  me.  Sometimes  I  would  try  to  surprise  him ; 
but  his  sleep  was  too  light  and  his  ears  too  keen. 
The  canoe  would  glide  up  to  the  old  cedar  and  touch 
the  shore  noiselessly;  but  with  the  first  crunch  of 
gravel  under  my  foot,  or  the  rub  of  my  canoe  as  I 
lifted  it  out,  he  would  waken  ;  and  his  song,  all  sweet- 
ness and  cheer,  /  ^m  here,  sweet  Killooleet-lillooleet- 
lillooleet,  would  ripple  out  of  the  dark  underbrush 
where  his  nest  was. 

I  am  glad  now  to  think  that  I  never  saw  that  nest, 
though  it  was  scarcely  ten  yards  from  my  tent,  until 
after  the  young  had  flown,  and  Killooleet  cared  no 
more  about  it.  I  knew  the  bush  in  which  it  was, 
close  by  the  deer  path  ;  could  pick  out  from  my  fire- 
place the  thick  branch  that  sheltered  it ;  for  I  often 
watched  the  birds  coming  and  going.  I  have  no 
doubt  that  Killooleet  would  have  welcomed  me  there 
without  fear;  but  his  mate  never  laid  aside  her  shy- 
ness about  it,  never  went  to  it  directly  when  I  was 
looking,  and  I  knew  he  would  like  me  better  if  I 
respected  her  little  secret. 

Soon,  from  the  mate's  infrequent  visits,  and  from 


34  Wilderness  Ways. 

the  amount  of  food  which  Killooleet  took  away  with 
him,  I  knew  she  was  brooding  her  eggs.  And  when 
at  last  both  birds  came  together,  and,  instead  of  help- 
ing themselves  hungrily,  each  took  the  largest  morsel 
he  could  carry  and  hurried  away  to  the  nest,  I  knew 
that  the  little  ones  were  come ;  and  I  spread  the  plate 
more  liberally,  and  moved  it  away  to  the  foot  of  the 
old  cedar,  where  Killooleet's  mate  would  not  be  afraid 
to  come  at  any  time. 

One  day,  not  long  after,  as  I  sat  at  a  late  breakfast 
after  the  morning's  fishing,  there  was  a  great  stir  in 
the  underbrush.  Presently  Killooleet  came  skipping 
out,  all  fuss  and  feathers,  running  back  and  forth  with 
an  air  of  immense  importance  between  the  last  bush 
and  the  plate  by  the  cedar,  crying  out  in  his  own 
way,  "  Here  it  is,  here  it  is,  all  right,  just  by  the  old 
tree  as  usual.  Crackers,  trout,  brown  bread,  porridge; 
come  on,  come  on  ;  don't  be  afraid.  He 's  here,  but 
he  won't  harm.  I  know  him.  Come  on,  come  on  !  " 

Soon  his  little  gray  mate  appeared  under  the  last 
bush,  and  after  much  circumspection  came  hopping 
towards  the  breakfast ;  and  after  her,  in  a  long  line, 
five  little  Killooleets,  hopping,  fluttering,  cheeping, 
stumbling,  —  all  in  a  fright  at  the  big  world,  but  all  in 
a  desperate  hurry  for  crackers  and  porridge  ad  libitum; 
now  casting  hungry  eyes  at  the  plate  under  the  old 


Killooleet,  Little  Sweet -Voice.  35 

cedar,  now  stopping  to  turn  their  heads  sidewise  to 
see  the  big  kind  animal  with  only  two  legs,  that 
Killooleet  had  told  them  about,  no  doubt,  many 
times. 

After  that  we  had  often  seven  guests  to  breakfast, 
instead  of  two.  It  was  good  to  hear  them,  the  lively 
tink,  tink-a-tink  of  their  little  bills  on  the  tin  plate  in  a 
merry  tattoo,  as  I  ate  my  own  tea  and  trout  thankfully. 
I  had  only  to  raise  my  eyes  to  see  them  in  a  bob- 
bing brown  ring  about  my  bounty;  and,  just  beyond 
them,  the  lap  of  ripples  on  the  beach,  the  lake  glinting 
far  away  in  the  sunshine,  and  a  bark  canoe  fretting  at 
the  landing,  swinging,  veering,  nodding  at  the  ripples, 
and  beckoning  me  to  come  away  as  soon  as  I  had 
finished  my  breakfast. 

Before  the  little  Killooleets  had  grown  accustomed 
to  things,  however,  occurred  the  most  delicious  bit  of 
our  summer  camping.  It  was  only  a  day  or  two  after 
their  first  appearance ;  they  knew  simply  that  crumbs 
and  a  welcome  awaited  them  at  my  camp,  but  had 
not  yet  learned  that  the  tin  plate  in  the  cedar  roots 
was  their  special  portion.  Simmo  had  gone  off  at 
daylight,  looking  up  beaver  signs  for  his  fall  trapping. 
I  had  just  returned  from  the  morning  fishing,  and  was 
getting  breakfast,  when  I  saw  an  otter  come  out  into 
the  lake  from  a  cold  brook  over  on  the  'east  shore. 


36  Wilderness  Ways. 

Grabbing  a  handful  of  figs,  and  some  pilot  bread  from 
the  cracker  box,  I  paddled  away  after  the  otter ;  for 
that  is  an  animal  which  one  has  small  chance  to  watch 
nowadays.  Besides,  I  had  found  a  den  over  near  the 
brook,  and  I  wanted  to  find  out,  if  possible,  how  a 
mother  otter  teaches  her  young  to  swim.  For,  though 
otters  live  much  in  the  water  and  love  it,  the  young 
ones  are  afraid  of  it  as  so  many  kittens.  So  the 
mother  — 

But  I  must  tell  about  that  elsewhere.  I  did  not 
find  out  that  day ;  for  the  young  were  already  good 
swimmers.  I  watched  the  den  two  or  three  hours 
from  a  good  hiding  place,  and  got  several  glimpses 
of  the  mother  and  the  little  ones.  On  the  way  back 
I  ran  into  a  little  bay  where  a  mother  shelldrake  was 
teaching  her  brood  to  dive  and  catch  trout.  There 
was  also  a  big  frog  there  that  always  sat  in  the  same 
place,  and  that  I  used  to  watch.  Then  I  thought  of 
a  trap,  two  miles  away,  which  Simmo  had  set,  and  went 
to  see  if  Nemox,  the  cunning  fisher,  who  destroys 
the  sable  traps  in  winter,  had  been  caught  at  his 
own  game.  So  it  was  afternoon,  and  I  was  hungry, 
when  I  paddled  back  to  camp.  It  occurred  to  me 
suddenly  that  Killooleet  might  be  hungry  too  ;  for 
I  had  neglected  to  feed  him.  He  had  grown  sleek 
and  comfortable  of  late,  and  never  went  insect  hunt- 


Killooleet,  Little  Sweet -Voice.  37 

ing  when  he  could  get  cold  fried  trout  and  corn 
bread. 

I  landed  silently  and  stole  up  to  the  tent  to  see  if 
he  were  exploring  under  the  fly,  as  he  sometimes  did 
when  I  was  away.  A  curious  sound,  a  hollow  tunk, 
tunk,  tunk,  tunk-a-tunk,  grew  louder  as  I  approached. 
I  stole  to  the  big  cedar,  where  I  could  see  the  fire- 
place and  the  little  opening  before  my  tent,  and 
noticed  first  that  I  had  left  the  cracker  box  open  (it 
was  almost  empty)  when  I  hurried  away  after  the 
otter.  The  curious  sound  was  inside,  growing  more 
eager  every  moment  —  tunk,  tunk,  tunk-a-trrrrrrr- 
runk,  tunk,  tunk ! 

I  crept  on  my  hands  and  knees  to  the  box,  to  see 
what  queer  thing  had  found  his  way  to  the  crackers, 
and  peeped  cautiously  over  the  edge.  There  were 
Killooleet,  and  Mrs.  Killooleet,  and  the  five  little 
Killooleets,  just  seven  hopping  brown  backs  and 
bobbing  heads,  helping  themselves  to  the  crackers. 
And  the  sound  of  their  bills  on  the  empty  box  made 
the  jolliest  tattoo  that  ever  came  out  of  a  camp- 
ing kit. 

I  crept  away  more  cautiously  than  I  had  come,  and, 
standing  carelessly  in  my  tent  door,  whistled  the  call 
I  always  used  in  feeding  the  birds.  Like  a  flash 
Killooleet  appeared  on  the  edge  of  the  cracker  box, 


38  Wilderness  Ways. 

looking  very  much  surprised.  "  I  thought  you  were 
away;  why,  I  thought  you  were  away,"  he  seemed  to 
be  saying.  Then  he  clucked,  and  the  timk-a-tunk 
ceased  instantly.  Another  cluck,  and  Mrs.  Killooleet 
appeared,  looking  frightened  ;  then,  one  after  another, 
the  five  little  Killooleets  bobbed  up ;  and  there  they 
sat  in  a  solemn  row  on  the  edge  of  the  cracker  box, 
turning  their  heads  sidewise  to  see  me  better. 

"  There !  "  said  Killooleet,  "  did  n't  I  tell  you  he 
would  n't  hurt  you  ? "  And  like  five  winks  the  five 
little  Killooleets  were  back  in  the  box,  and  the  tunk- 
a-tunking  began  again. 

This  assurance  that  they  might  do  as  they  pleased, 
and  help  themselves  undisturbed  to  whatever  they 
found,  seemed  to  remove  the  last  doubt  from  the 
mind  of  even  the  little  gray  mate.  After  that  they 
stayed  most  of  the  time  close  about  my  tent,  and 
were  never  so  far  away,  or  so  busy  insect  hunt- 
ing, that  they  would  not  come  when  I  whistled 
and  scattered  crumbs.  The  little  Killooleets  grew 
amazingly,  and  no  wonder !  They  were  always 
eating,  always  hungry.  I  took  good  pains  to  give 
them  less  than  they  wanted,  and  so  had  the  satis- 
faction of  feeding  them  often,  and  of  finding  their 
tin  plate  picked  clean  whenever  I  came  back  from 
fishing. 


Killooleet ,  Little  Sweet -Voice.  39 

Did  the  woods  seem  lonely  to  Killooleet  when 
we  paddled  away  at  last  and  left  the  wilderness  for 
another  year  ?  That  is  a  question  which  I  would 
give  much,  or  watch  long,  to  answer.  There  is 
always  a  regret  at  leaving  a  good  camping  ground, 
but  I  had  never  packed  up  so  unwillingly  before. 
Killooleet  was  singing,  cheery  as  ever;  but  my  own 
heart  gave  a  minor  chord  of  sadness  to  his  trill  that 
was  not  there  when  he  sang  on  my  ridgepole.  Before 
leaving  I  had  baked  a  loaf,  big  and  hard,  which  I 
fastened  with  stakes  at  the  foot  of  the  old  cedar,  with 
a  tin  plate  under  it  and  a  bark  roof  above,  so  that 
when  it  rained,  and  insects  were  hidden  under  the 
leaves,  and  their  hunting  was  no  fun  because  the 
woods  were  wet,  Killooleet  and  his  little  ones  would 
find  food,  and  remember  me.  And  so  we  paddled 
away  and  left  him  to  the  wilderness. 

A  year  later  my  canoe  touched  the  same  old  land- 
ing. For  ten  months  I  had  been  in  the  city,  where 
Killooleet  never  sings,  and  where  the  wilderness  is 
only  a  memory.  In  the  fall,  on  some  long  tramps,  I 
had  occasional  glimpses  of  the  little  singer,  solitary 
now  and  silent,  stealing  southward  ahead  of  the 
winter.  And  in  the  spring  he  showed  himself  rarely 
in  the  underbrush  on  country  roads,  eager,  restless, 
chirping,  hurrying  northward  where  the  streams  were 


40  Wilderness  Ways. 

clear  and  the  big  woods  budding.  But  never  a  song 
in  all  that  time ;  my  ears  were  hungry  for  his  voice 
as  I  leaped  out  to  run  eagerly  to  the  big  cedar. 
There  were  the  stakes,  and  the  tin  plate,  and  the  bark 
roof  all  crushed  by  the  snows  of  winter.  The  bread 
was  gone ;  what  Killooleet  had  spared,  Tookhees  the 
wood  mouse  had  eaten  thankfully.  I  found  the  old 
tent  poles  and  put  up  my  house  leisurely,  a  hundred 
happy  memories  thronging  about  me.  In  the  midst 
of  them  came  a  call,  a  clear  whistle,  —  and  there  he 
was,  the  same  full  cravat,  the  same  bright  cap,  and 
the  same  perfect  song  to  set  my  nerves  a-tingling: 
/ ' m  here,  sweet  Killooleet- lillooleet-lillooleet !  And  wh e  n 
I  put  crumbs  by  the  old  fireplace,  he  flew  down  to 
help  himself,  and  went  off  with  the  biggest  one,  as  of 
yore,  to  his  nest  by  the  deer  path. 


III.     KAGAX 
THE   BLOODTHIRSTY. 

HIS  is  the  story  of  one  day,  the 
last  one,  in  the  life  of  Kagax 
the  Weasel,  who  turns  white  in  winter, 
and  yellow  in  spring,  and  brown  in 
summer,  the  better  to  hide  his  villainy. 

It  was  early  twilight  when  Kagax  came 
out  of  his  den  in  the  rocks,  under  the  old 
pine  that  lightning  had  blasted.  Day  and 
night  were  meeting  swiftly  but  warily,  as 
they  always  meet  in  the  woods.  The  life 
of  the  sunshine  came  stealing  nestwards 
and  denwards  in  the  peace  of  a  long  day  and  a  full 
stomach;  the  night  life  began  to  stir  in  its  coverts, 
eager,  hungry,  whining.  Deep  in  the  wild  raspberry 
thickets  a  wood  thrush  rang  his  vesper  bell  softly; 
from  the  mountain  top  a  night  hawk  screamed  back 
an  answer,  and  came  booming  down  to  earth,  where 
the  insects  were  rising  in  myriads.  Near  the  thrush 
a  striped  chipmunk  sat  chunk-a-chunking  his  sleepy 
curiosity  at  a  burned  log  which  a  bear  had  just  torn 

41 


42  Wilderness  Ways. 

open  for  red  ants;  while  down  on  the  lake  shore  a 
cautious  plash-plash  told  where  a  cow  moose  had 
come  out  of  the  alders  with  her  calf  to  sup  on 
the  yellow  lily  roots  and  sip  the  freshest  water. 
Everywhere  life  was  stirring ;  everywhere  cries,  calls, 
squeaks,  chirps,  rustlings,  which  only  the  wood- 
dweller  knows  how  to  interpret,  broke  in  upon  the 
twilight  stillness. 

Kagax  grinned  and  showed  all  his  wicked  little 
teeth  as  the  many  voices  went  up  from  lake  and 
stream  and  forest.  "  Mine,  all  mine  —  to  kill,"  he 
snarled,  and  his  eyes  began  to  glow  deep  red.  Then 
he  stretched  one  sinewy  paw  after  another,  rolled 
over,  climbed  a  tree,  and  jumped  down  from  a  sway- 
ing twig  to  get  the  sleep  all  out  of  him. 

Kagax  had  slept  too  much,  and  was  mad  with  the 
world.  The  night  before,  he  had  killed  from  sunset 
to  sunrise,  and  much  tasting  of  blood  had  made  him 
heavy.  So  he  had  slept  all  day  long,  only  stirring 
once  to  kill  a  partridge  that  had  drummed  near  his 
den  and  waked  him  out  of  sleep.  But  he  was  too 
heavy  to  hunt  then,  so  he  crept  back  again,  leaving 
the  bird  untasted  under  the  end  of  his  own  drumming 
log.  Now  Kagax  was  eager  to  make  up  for  lost  time ; 
for  all  time  is  lost  to  Kagax  that  is  not  spent  in  kill- 
ing. That  is  why  he  runs  night  and  day,  and  barely 


Kagax  the  Bloodthirsty.  43 

tastes  the  blood  of  his  victims,  and  sleeps  only  an 
hour  or  two  of  cat  naps  at  a  time  —  just  long  enough 
to  gather  energy  for  more  evil  doing. 

As  he  stretched  himself  again,  a  sudden  barking 
and  snickering  came  from  a  giant  spruce  on  the  hill 
just  above.  Meeko,  the  red  squirrel,  had  discovered 
a  new  jay's  nest,  and  was  making  a  sensation  over 
it,  as  he  does  over  everything  that  he  has  not  hap- 
pened to  see  before.  Had  he  known  who  was  listen- 
ing, he  would  have  risked  his  neck  in  a  headlong 
rush  for  safety ;  for  all  the  wild  things  fear  Kagax  as 
they  fear  death.  But  no  wild  thing  ever  knows  till 
too  late  that  a  weasel  is  near. 

Kagax  listened  a  moment,  a  ferocious  grin  on  his 
pointed  face ;  then  he  stole  towards  the  sound.  "  I 
intended  to  kill  those  young  hares  first,"  he  thought, 
"  but  this  fool  squirrel  will  stretch  my  legs  better,  and 
point  my  nose,  and  get  the  sleep  out  of  me —  There 
he  is,  in  the  big  spruce ! " 

Kagax  had  not  seen  the  squirrel ;  but  that  did  not 
matter ;  he  can  locate  a  victim  better  with  his  nose  or 
ears  than  he  can  with  his  eyes.  The  moment  he  was 
sure  of  the  place,  he  rushed  forward  without  caution. 
Meeko  was  in  the  midst  of  a  prolonged  snicker  at  the 
scolding  jays,  when  he  heard  a  scratch  on  the  bark 
below,  turned,  looked  down,  and  fled  with  a  cry  of 


44  Wilderness  Ways. 

terror.  Kagax  was  already  halfway  up  the  tree,  the 
red  fire  blazing  in  his  eyes. 

The  squirrel  rushed  to  the  end  of  a  branch,  jumped 
to  a  smaller  spruce,  ran  that  up  to  the  top;  then, 
because  his  fright  had  made  him  forget  the  tree  paths 
that  ordinarily  he  knew  very  well,  he  sprang  out  and 
down  to  the  ground,  a  clear  fifty  feet,  breaking  his 
fall  by  catching  and  holding  for  an  instant  a  swaying 
fir  tip  on  the  way.  Then  he  rushed  pell-mell  over 
logs  and  rocks,  and  through  the  underbrush  to  a 
maple,  and  from  that  across  a  dozen  trees  to  another 
giant  spruce,  where  he  ran  up  and  down  desperately 
over  half  the  branches,  crossing  and  crisscrossing  his 
trail,  and  dropped  panting  at  last  into  a  little  crevice 
under  a  broken  limb.  There  he  crouched  into  the 
smallest  possible  space  and  watched,  with  an  awful 
fear  in  his  eyes,  the  rough  trunk  below. 

Far  behind  him  came  Kagax,  grim,  relentless,  silent 
as  death.  He  paid  no  attention  to  scratching  claws 
nor  swaying  branches,  never  looking  for  the  jerking 
red  tip  of  Meeko's  tail,  nor  listening  for  the  loud 
thump  of  his  feet  when  he  struck  the  ground.  A 
pair  of  brave  little  flycatchers  saw  the  chase  and 
rushed  at  the  common  enemy,  striking  him  with 
their  beaks,  and  raising  an  outcry  that  brought  a 
score  of  frightened,  clamoring  birds  to  the  scene. 


Kagax  the  Bloodthirsty.  45 

But  Kagax  never  heeded.  His  whole  being  seemed 
to  be  concentrated  in  the  point  of  his  nose.  He 
followed  like  a  bloodhound  to  the  top  of  the  second 
spruce,  sniffed  here  and  there  till  he  caught  the  scent 
of  Meeko's  passage  through  the  air,  ran  to  the  end 
of  a  branch  in  the  same  direction  and  leaped  to  the 
ground,  landing  not  ten  feet  from  the  spot  where 
the  squirrel  had  struck  a  moment  before.  There  he 
picked  up  the  trail,  followed  over  logs  and  rocks  to 
the  maple,  up  to  the  third  branch,  and  across  fifty 
yards  of  intervening  branches  to  the  giant  spruce 
where  his  victim  sat  half  paralyzed,  watching  from 
his  crevice. 

Here  Kagax  was  more  deliberate.  Left  and  right, 
up  and  down  he  went  with  deadly  patience,  from  the 
lowest  branch  to  the  top,  a  hundred  feet  above,  follow- 
ing every  cross  and  winding  of  the  trail.  A  dozen 
times  he  stopped,  went  back,  picked  up  the  fresher 
trail,  and  went  on  again.  A  dozen  times  he  passed 
within  a  few  feet  of  his  victim,  smelling  him  strongly, 
but  scorning  to  use  his  eyes  till  his  nose  had  done  its 
perfect  work.  So  he  came  to  the  last  turn,  followed 
the  last  branch,  his  nose  to  the  bark,  straight  to 
the  crevice  under  the  broken  branch,  where  Meeko 
crouched  shivering,  knowing  it  was  all  over. 

There  was  a  cry,  that  no  one  heeded  in  the  woods ; 


46  Wilderness  Ways. 

there  was  a  flash  of  sharp  teeth,  and  the  squirrel  fell, 
striking  the  ground  with  a  heavy  thump.  Kagax  ran 
down  the  trunk,  sniffed  an  instant  at  the  body  with- 
out touching  it,  and  darted  away  to  the  form  among 
the  ferns.  He  had  passed  it  at  daylight  when  he 
was  too  heavy  for  killing. 

Halfway  to  the  lake,  he  stopped;  a  thrilling  song 
from  a  dead  spruce  top  bubbled  out  over  the  darken- 
ing woods.  When  a  hermit  thrush  sings  like  that, 
his  nest  is  somewhere  just  below.  Kagax  began 
twisting  in  and  out  like  a  snake  among  the  bushes, 
till  a  stir  in  a  tangle  of  raspberry  vines,  which  no  ears 
but  his  or  an  owl's  would  ever  notice,  made  him 
shrink  close  to  the  ground  and  look  up.  The  red 
fire  blazed  in  his  eyes  again;  for  there  was  Mother 
Thrush  just  settling  onto  her  nest,  not  five  feet  from 
his  head. 

To  climb  the  raspberry  vines  without  shaking  them, 
and  so  alarming  the  bird,  was  out  of  the  question; 
but  there  was  a  fire-blasted  tree  just  behind.  Kagax 
climbed  it  stealthily  on  the  side  away  from  the  bird, 
crept  to  a  branch  over  the  nest,  and  leaped  down. 
Mother  Thrush  was  preening  herself  sleepily,  feeling 
the  grateful  warmth  of  her  eggs  and  listening  to 
the  wonderful  song  overhead,  when  the  blow  came. 
Before  she  knew  what  it  was,  the  sharp  teeth  had  met 


Kagax  the  Bloodthirsty.  47 

in  her  brain.  The  pretty  nest  would  never  again  wait 
for  a  brooding  mother  in  the  twilight. 

All  the  while  the  wonderful  song  went  on ;  for  the 
hermit  thrush,  pouring  his  soul  out,  far  above  on  the 
dead  spruce  top,  heard  not  a  sound  of  the  tragedy 
below. 

Kagax  flung  the  warm  body  aside  savagely,  bit 
through  the  ends  of  the  three  eggs,  wishing  they  were 
young  thrushes,  and  leaped  to  the  ground.  There  he 
just  tasted  the  brain  of  his  victim  to  whet  his  appetite, 
listened  a  moment,  crouching  among  the  dead  leaves, 
to  the  melody  overhead,  wishing  it  were  darker,  so 
that  the  hermit  would  come  down  and  he  could  end 
his  wicked  work.  Then  he  glided  away  to  the  young 
hares. 

There  were  five  of  them  in  the  form,  hidden  among 
the  coarse  brakes  of  a  little  opening.  Kagax  went 
straight  to  the  spot.  A  weasel  never  forgets.  He 
killed  them  all,  one  after  another,  slowly,  deliberately, 
by  a  single  bite  through  the  spine,  tasting  only  the 
blood  of  the  last  one.  Then  he  wriggled  down 
among  the  warm  bodies  and  waited,  his  nose  to  the 
path  by  which  Mother  Hare  had  gone  away.  He 
knew  well  she  would  soon  be  coming  back. 

Presently  he  heard  her,  put-a-put,  put-a-put,  hop- 
ping along  the  path,  with  a  waving  line  of  ferns  to 


48  Wilderness  Ways. 

show  just  where  she  was.  Kagax  wriggled  lower 
among  his  helpless  victims ;  his  eyes  blazed  red  again, 
so  red  that  Mother  Hare  saw  them  and  stopped  short. 
Then  Kagax  sat  up  straight  among  the  dead  babies 
and  screeched  in  her  face. 

The  poor  creature  never  moved  a  step;  she  only 
crouched  low  before  her  own  door  and  began  to 
shiver  violently.  Kagax  ran  up  to  her;  raised  himself 
on  his  hind  legs  so  as  to  place  his  fore  paws  on  her 
neck ;  chose  his  favorite  spot  behind  the  ears,  and  bit. 
The  hare  straightened  out,  the  quivering  ceased.  A 
tiny  drop  of  blood  followed  the  sharp  teeth  on  either 
side.  Kagax  licked  it  greedily  and  hurried  away, 
afraid  to  spoil  his  hunt  by  drinking. 

But  he  had  scarcely  entered  the  woods,  running 
heedlessly,  when  the  moss  by  a  great  stone  stirred 
with  a  swift  motion.  There  was  a  squeak  of  fright  as 
Kagax  jumped  forward  like  lightning  —  but  too  late. 
Tookhees,  the  timid  little  wood  mouse,  who  was  dig- 
ging under  the  moss  for  twin-flower  roots  to  feed  his 
little  ones,  had  heard  the  enemy  coming,  and  dove 
headlong  into  his  hole,  just  in  time  to  escape  the  snap 
of  Kagax's  teeth. 

That  angered  the  fiery  little  weasel  like  poking  a 
stick  at  him.  To  be  caught  napping,  or  to  be  heard 
running  through  the  woods,  is  more  than  he  can  pos- 


Kagax  the  Bloodthirsty.  49 

sibly  stand.  His  eyes  fairly  snapped  as  he  began  dig- 
ging furiously.  Below,  he  could  hear  a  chorus  of 
faint  squeaks,  the  clamor  of  young  wood  mice  for  their 
supper.  But  a  few  inches  down,  and  the  hole  doubled 
under  a  round  stone,  then  vanished  between  two 
roots  close  together.  Try  as  he  would,  Kagax  could 
only  wear  his  claws  out,  without  making  any  progress. 
He  tried  to  force  his  shoulders  through ;  for  a  weasel 
.thinks  he  can  go  anywhere.  But  the  hole  was  too 
small.  Kagax  cried  out  in  rage  and  took  up  the  trail. 
A  dozen  times  he  ran  it  from  the  hole  to  the  torn 
moss,  where  Tookhees  had  been  digging  roots,  and 
back  again;  then,  sure  that  all  the  wood  mice  were 
inside,  he  tried  to  tear  his  way  between  the  obstinate 
roots.  As  well  try  to  claw  down  the  tree  itself. 

All  the  while  Tookhees,  who  always  has  just  such 
a  turn  in  his  tunnel,  and  who  knows  perfectly  when 
he  is  safe,  crouched  just  below  the  roots,  looking  up 
with  steady  little  eyes,  like  two  black  beads,  at  his 
savage  pursuer,  and  listening  in  a  kind  of  dumb 
terror  to  his  snarls  of  rage. 

Kagax  gave  it  up  at  last  and  took  to  running  in 
circles.  Wider  and  wider  he  went,  running  swift  and 
silent,  his  nose  to  the  ground,  seeking  other  mice  on 
whom  to  wreak  his  vengeance.  Suddenly  he  struck 
a  fresh  trail  and  ran  it  straight  to  the  clearing  where 


50  Wilderness  Ways. 

a  foolish  field  mouse  had  built  a  nest  in  a  tangle  of 
dry  brakes.  Kagax  caught  and  killed  the  mother  as 
she  rushed  out  in  alarm.  Then  he  tore  the  nest  open 
and  killed  all  the  little  ones.  He  tasted  the  blood 
of  one  and  went  on  again. 

The  failure  to  catch  the  wood  mouse  still  rankled 
in  his  head  and  kept  his  eyes  bright  red.  Suddenly 
he  turned  from  his  course  along  the  lake  shore;  he 
began  to  climb  the  ridge.  Up  and  up  he  went,  cross- 
ing a  dozen  trails  that  ordinarily  he  would  have  fol- 
lowed, till  he  came  to  where  a  dead  tree  had  fallen 
and  lodged  against  a  big  spruce,  near  the  summit. 
There  he  crouched  in  the  underbrush  and  waited. 

Up  near  the  top  of  the  dead  tree,  a  pair  of  pine 
martens  had  made  their  den  in  the  hollow  trunk,  and 
reared  a  family  of  young  martens  that  drew  Kagax's 
evil  thoughts  like  a  magnet.  The  marten  belongs  to 
the  weasel's  own  family;  therefore,  as  a  choice  bit  of 
revenge,  Kagax  would  rather  kill  him  than  anything 
else.  A  score  of  times  he  had  crouched  in  this  same 
place  and  waited  for  his  chance.  But  the  marten  is 
larger  and  stronger  every  way  than  the  weasel,  and, 
though  shyer,  almost  as  savage  in  a  fight.  And 
Kagax  was  afraid. 

But  to-night  Kagax  was  in  a  more  vicious  mood 
than  ever  before ;  and  a  weasel's  temper  is  always  the 


Kagax  the  Bloodthirsty.  51 

most  vicious  thing  in  the  woods.  He  stole  forward 
at  last  and  put  his  nose  to  the  foot  of  the  leaning  tree. 
Two  fresh  trails  went  out ;  none  came  back.  Kagax 
followed  them  far  enough  to  be  sure  that  both  martens 
were  away  hunting ;  then  he  turned  and  ran  like  a 
flash  up  the  incline  and  into  the  den. 

In  a  moment  he  came  out,  licking  his  chops  greedily. 
Inside,  the  young  martens  lay  just  as  they  had  been 
left  by  the  mother;  only  they  began  to  grow  very 
cold.  Kagax  ran  to  the  great  spruce,  along  a  branch 
into  another  tree  ;  then  to  the  ground  by  a  dizzy  jump. 
There  he  ran  swiftly  for  a  good  half  hour  in  a  long 
diagonal  down  towards  the  lake,  crisscrossing  his  trail 
here  and  there  as  he  ran. 

Once  more  his  night's  hunting  began,  with  greater 
zeal  than  before.  He  was  hungry  now;  his  nose 
grew  keen  as  a  brier  for  every  trail.  A  faint  smell 
stopped^  him,  so  faint  that  the  keenest-nosed  dog  or 
fox  would  have  passed  without  turning,  the  smell  of 
a  brooding  partridge  on  her  eggs.  There  she  was, 
among  the  roots  of  a  pine,  sitting  close  and  blend- 
ing perfectly  with  the  roots  and  the  brown  needles. 
Kagax  moved  like  a  shadow ;  his  nose  found  the  bird ; 
before  she  could  spring  he  was  on  her  back,  and  his 
teeth  had  done  their  evil  work.  Once  more  he  tasted 
the  fresh  brains  with  keen  relish.  He  broke  all  the 


52  Wilderness  Ways. 

eggs,  so  that  none  else  might  profit  by  his  hunting, 
and  went  on  again. 

On  some  moist  ground,  under  a  hemlock,  he  came 
upon  the  fresh  trail  of  a  wandering  hare  —  no  simple, 
unsuspecting  mother,  coming  back  to  her  babies,  but 
a  big,  strong,  suspicious  fellow,  who  knew  how  to 
make  a  run  for  his  life.  Kagax  was  still  fresh  and 
eager;  here  was  game  that  would  stretch  his  muscles. 
The  red  lust  of  killing  flamed  into  his  eyes  as  he 
jumped  away  on  the  trail. 

Soon,  by  the  long  distances  between  tracks,  he 
knew  that  the  hare  was  startled.  The  scent  was 
fresher  now,  so  fresh  that  he  could  follow  it  in  the 
air,  without  putting  his  nose  to  the  ground. 

Suddenly  a  great  commotion  sounded  among  the 
bushes  just  ahead,  where  a  moment  before  all  was 
still.  The  hare  had  been  lying  there,  watching  his 
back  track  to  see  what  was  following.  When  he  saw 
the  red  eyes  of  Kagax,  he  darted  away  wildly.  A  few 
hundred  yards,  and  the  foolish  hare,  who  could  run 
far  faster  than  his  pursuer,  dropped  in  the  bushes 
again  to  watch  and  see  if  the  weasel  was  still  after 
him. 

Kagax  was  following,  swiftly,  silently.  Again  the 
hare  bounded  away,  only  to  stop  and  scare  himself 
into  fits  by  watching  his  own  trail  till  the  red  eyes 


Kagax  the  Bloodthirsty.  53 

of  the  weasel  blazed  into  view.  So  it  went  on  for 
a  half  hour,  through  brush  and  brake  and  swamp, 
till  the  hare  had  lost  all  his  wits  and  began  to  run 
wildly  in  small  circles.  Then  Kagax  turned,  ran  the 
back  track  a  little  way,  and  crouched  flat  on  the 
ground. 

In  a  moment  the  hare  came  tearing  along  on  his 
own  trail  —  straight  towards  the  yellow-brown  ball 
under  a  fern  tip.  Kagax  waited  till  he  was  almost 
run  over;  then  he  sprang  up  and  screeched.  That 
ended  the  chase.  The  hare  just  dropped  on  his  fore 
paws.  Kagax  jumped  for  his  head ;  his  teeth  met ; 
the  hunger  began  to  gnaw,  and  he  drank  his  fill 
greedily. 

For  a  time  the  madness  of  the  chase  seemed  to  be 
in  the  blood  he  drank.  Keener  than  ever  to  kill,  he 
darted  away  on  a  fresh  trail.  But  soon  his  feast 
began  to  tell ;  his  feet  grew  heavy.  Angry  at  him- 
self, he  lay  down  to  sleep  their  weight  away. 

Far  behind  him,  under  the  pine  by  the  partridge's 
nest,  a  long  dark  shadow  seemed  to  glide  over  the 
ground.  A  pointed  nose  touched  the  leaves  here  and 
there ;  over  the  nose  a  pair  of  fierce  little  eyes  glowed 
deep  red  as  Kagax's  own.  So  the  shadow  came  to 
the  partridge's  nest,  passed  over  it,  minding  not  the 
scent  of  broken  eggs  nor  of  the  dead  bird,  but  only 


54  Wilderness  Ways. 

the  scent  of  the  weasel,  and  vanished  into  the  under- 
brush on  the  trail. 

Kagax  woke  with  a  start  and  ran  on.  A  big  bull- 
frog croaked  down  on  the  shore.  Kagax  stalked  and 
killed  him,  leaving  his  carcass  untouched  among  the 
lily  pads.  A  dead  pine  in  a  thicket  attracted  his 
suspicion.  He  climbed  it  swiftly,  found  a  fresh  round 
hole,  and  tumbled  in  upon  a  mother  bird  and  a  family 
of  young  woodpeckers.  He  killed  them  all,  tasting 
the  brains  again,  and  hunted  the  tree  over  for  the 
father  bird,  the  great  black  logcock  that  makes  the 
wilderness  ring  with  his  tattoo.  But  the  logcock 
heard  claws  on  the  bark  and  flew  to  another  tree, 
making  a  great  commotion  in  the  darkness  as  he 
blundered  along,  but  not  knowing  what  it  was  that 
had  startled  him. 

So  the  night  wore  on,  with  Kagax  killing  in  every 
thicket,  yet  never  satisfied  with  killing.  He  thought 
longingly  of  the  hard  winter,  when  game  was  scarce, 
and  he  had  made  his  way  out  over  the  snow  to  the 
settlement,  and  lived  among  the  chicken  coops. 
"  Twenty  big  hens  in  one  roost  —  that  was  killing," 
snarled  Kagax  savagely,  as  he  strangled  two  young 
herons  in  their  nest,  while  the  mother  bird  went  on 
with  her  frogging,  not  ten  yards  away  among  the  lily 
pads,  and  never  heard  a  rustle. 


Kagax  the  Bloodthirsty.  55 

Toward  morning  he  turned  homeward,  making  his 
way  back  in  a  circle  along  the  top  of  the  ridge  where 
his  den  was,  and  killing  as  he  went.  He  had  tasted 
too  much;  his  feet  grew  heavier  than  they  had  ever 
been  before.  He  thought  angrily  that  he  would  have 
to  sleep  another  whole  day.  And  to  sleep  a  whole 
day,  while  the  wilderness  was  just  beginning  to  swarm 
with  life,  rilled  Kagax  with  snarling  rage. 

A  mother  hare  darted  away  from  her  form  as  the 
weasel's  wicked  eyes  looked  in  upon  her.  Kagax 
killed  the  little  ones  and  had  started  after  the  mother, 
when  a  shiver  passed  over  him  and  he  turned  back 
to  listen.  He  had  been  moving  more  slowly  of  late ; 
several  times  he  had  looked  behind  him  with  the  feel- 
ing that  he  was  followed.  He  stole  back  to  the  hare's 
form  and  lay  hidden,  watching  his  back  track.  He 
shivered  again.  "  If  it  were  not  stronger  than  I,  it 
would  not  follow  my  trail,"  thought  Kagax.  The  fear 
of  a  hunted  thing  came  upon  him.  He  remembered 
the  marten's  den,  the  strangled  young  ones,  the  two 
trails  that  left  the  leaning  tree.  "  They  must  have 
turned  back  long  ago,"  thought  Kagax,  and  darted 
away.  His  back  was  cold  now,  cold  as  ice. 

But  his  feet  grew  very  heavy  ere  he  reached  his 
den.  A  faint  light  began  to  show  over  the  mountain 
across  the  lake.  Killooleet,  the  white-throated  spar- 


56  '  Wilderness  Ways. 

row,  saw  it,  and  his  clear  morning  song  tinkled  out 
of  the  dark  underbrush.  Kagax's  eyes  glowed  red 
again ;  he  stole  toward  the  sound  for  a  last  kill. 
Young  sparrows'  brains  are  a  dainty  dish ;  he  would 
eat  his  fill,  since  he  must  sleep  all  day.  He  found 
the  nest ;  he  had  placed  his  fore  paws  against  the 
tree  that  held  it,  when  he  dropped  suddenly;  the 
shivers  began  to  course  all  over  him.  Just  below, 
from  a  stub  in  a  dark  thicket,  a  deep  Whooo-hoo-hoo  ! 
rolled  out  over  the  startled  woods. 

It  was  Kookooskoos,  the  great  horned  owl,  who 
generally  hunts  only  in  the  evening  twilight,  but  who, 
with  growing  young  ones  to  feed,  sometimes  uses  the 
morning  twilight  as  well.  Kagax  lay  still  as  a  stone. 
Over  him  the  sparrows,  knowing  the  danger,  crouched 
low  in  their  nest,  not  daring  to  move  a  claw  lest  the 
owl  should  hear. 

Behind  him  the  same  shadow  that  had  passed  over 
the  partridge's  nest  looked  into  the  hare's  form  with 
fierce  red  eyes.  It  followed  Kagax's  trail  over  that  of 
the  mother  hare,  turned  back,  sniffed  the  earth,  and 
came  hurrying  silently  along  the  ridge. 

Kagax  crept  stealthily  out  of  the  thicket.  He  had 
an  awful  fear  now  of  his  feet;  for,  heavy  with  the 
blood  he  had  eaten,  they  would  rustle  the  leaves,  or 
scratch  on  the  stones,  that  all  night  long  they  had 


Two  sets  of  strong  curved  claws  dropped  down  from  the  shadow 


Kagax  the  Bloodthirsty.  57 

glided  over  in  silence.  He  was  near  his  den  now. 
He  could  see  the  old  pine  that  lightning  had  blasted, 
towering  against  the  sky  over  the  dark  spruces. 

Again  the  deep  Whooo-hoo-hoo  /  rolled  over  the  hill- 
side. To  Kagax,  who  gloats  over  his  killing  except 
when  he  is  afraid,  it  became  an  awful  accusation. 
"  Who  has  killed  where  he  cannot  eat  ?  who  strangled 
a  brooding  bird  ?  who  murdered  his  own  kin  ?  "  came 
thundering  through  the  woods.  Kagax  darted  for  his 
den.  His  hind  feet  struck  a  rotten  twig  that  they 
should  have  cleared;  it  broke  with  a  sharp  snap. 
In  an  instant  a  huge  shadow  swept  down  from  the 
stub  and  hovered  over  the  sound.  Two  fierce  yellow 
eyes  looked  in  upon  Kagax,  crouching  and  trying  to 
hide  under  a  fir  tip. 

Kagax  whirled  when  the  eyes  found  him  and  two 
sets  of  strong  curved  claws  dropped  down  from  the 
shadow.  With  a  savage  snarl  he  sprang  up,  and  his 
teeth  met;  but  no  blood  followed  the  bite,  only  a 
flutter  of  soft  brown  feathers.  Then  one  set  of  sharp 
claws  gripped  his  head;  another  set  met  deep  in  his 
back.  Kagax  was  jerked  swiftly  into  the  air,  and 
his  evil  doing  was  ended  forever. 

There  was  a  faint  rustle  in  the  thicket  as  the 
shadow  of  Kookooskoos  swept  away  to  his  nest. 
The  long  lithe  form  of  a  pine  marten  glided  straight 


58  Wilderness  Ways. 

to  the  fir  tip,  where  Kagax  had  been  a  moment  before. 
His  movements  were  quick,  nervous,  silent;  his  eyes 
showed  like  two  drops  of  blood  over  his  twitching 
nostrils.  He  circled  swiftly  about  the  end  of  the  lost 
trail.  His  nose  touched  a  brown  feather,  another, 
and  he  glided  back  to  the  fir  tip.  A  drop  of  blood 
was  soaking  slowly  into  a  dead  leaf.  The  marten 
thrust  his  nose  into  it.  One  long  sniff,  while  his 
eyes  blazed;  then  he  raised  his  head,  cried  out  once 
savagely,  and  glided  away  on  the  back  track. 


IV.     KOOKOOSKOOS,  .WHO    CATCHES 
THE    WRONG    RAT. 

OOKOOSKOOS  is  the  big  brown 
owl,  the  Bubo  Virginianus,  or 
Great  Horned  Owl  of  the  books. 
But  his  Indian  name  is  best. 
Almost  any  night  in  autumn, 
if  you  leave  the  town  and  go 
out  towards  the  big  woods,  you 
can  hear  him  calling  it,  Koo-koo- 
skoos,  koooo,  kooo,  down  in  the 
swamp. 

Kookooskoos  is  always  catch- 
ing the  wrong  rat.  The  reason 
is  that  he  is  a  great  hunter,  and 
thinks  that  every  furry  thing 
which  moves  must  be  game ;  and 
so  he  is  like  the  fool  sportsman 
who  shoots  at  a  sound,  or  a  motion  in  the  bushes, 
before  finding  out  what  makes  it.  Sometimes  the 
rat  turns  out  to  be  a  skunk,  or  a  weasel ;  sometimes 
your  pet  cat;  and,  once  in  a  lifetime,  it  is  your  own  fur 

59 


60  Wilderness  Ways. 

cap,  or  even  your  head ;  and  then  you  feel  the  weight 
and  the  edge  of  Kookooskoos'  claws.  But  he  never 
learns  wisdom  by  mistakes;  for,  spite  of  his  grave 
appearance,  he  is  excitable  as  a  Frenchman ;  and  so, 
whenever  anything  stirs  in  the  bushes  and  a  bit  of 
fur  appears,  he  cries  out  to  himself,  A  rat,  Kookoo  ! 
a  rabbit!  and  swoops  on  the  instant. 

Rats  and  rabbits  are  his  favorite  food,  by  the  way, 
and  he  never  lets  a  chance  go  by  of  taking  them  into 
camp.  I  think  I  never  climbed  to  his  nest  without 
finding  plenty  of  the  fur  of  both  animals  to  tell  of 
his  skill  in  hunting. 

One  evening  in  the  twilight,  as  I  came  home  from 
hunting  in  the  big  woods,  I  heard  the  sound  of  deer 
feeding  just  ahead.  I  stole  forward  to  the  edge  of  a 
thicket  and  stood  there  motionless,  looking  and  listen- 
ing intently.  My  cap  was  in  my  pocket,  and  only  my 
head  appeared  above  the  low  firs  that  sheltered  me. 
Suddenly,  without  noise  or  warning  of  any  kind,  I 
received  a  sharp  blow  on  the  head  from  behind,  as  if 
some  one  had  struck  me  with  a  thorny  stick.  I  turned 
quickly,  surprised  and  a  good  bit  startled;  for  I  thought 
myself  utterly  alone  in  the  woods  —  and  I  was. 
There  was  nobody  there.  Not  a  sound,  not  a  motion 
broke  the  twilight  stillness.  Something  trickled  on 
my  neck ;  I  put  up  my  hand,  to  find  my  hair  already 


Kookooskoos  and  the  Wrong  Rat.  61 

wet  with  blood.  More  startled  than  ever,  I  sprang 
through  the  thicket,  looking,  listening  everywhere  for 
sight  or  sound  of  my  enemy.  Still  no  creature  bigger 
than  a  wood  mouse;  no  movement  save  that  of  nod- 
ding fir  tips ;  no  sound  but  the  thumping  of  my  own 
heart,  and,  far  behind  me,  a  sudden  rush  and  a  bump 
or  two  as  the  frightened  deer  broke  away ;  then  per- 
fect stillness  again,  as  if  nothing  had  ever  lived  in  the 
thickets. 

I  was  little  more  than  a  boy ;  and  I  went  home  that 
night  more  puzzled  and  more  frightened  than  I  have 
ever  been,  before  or  since,  in  the  woods.  I  ran  into 
the  doctor's  office  on  my  way.  He  found  three  cuts 
in  my  scalp,  and  below  them  two  shorter  ones,  where 
pointed  things  seemed  to  have  been  driven  through 
to  the  bone.  He  looked  at  me  queerly  when  I  told 
my  story.  Of  course  he  did  not  believe  me,  and  I 
made  no  effort  to  persuade  him.  Indeed,  I  scarcely 
believed  myself.  But  for  the  blood  which  stained  my 
handkerchief,  and  the  throbbing  pain  in  my  head, 
I  should  have  doubted  the  reality  of  the  whole 
experience. 

That  night  I  started  up  out  of  sleep,  some  time 
towards  morning,  and  said  before  I  was  half  awake: 
"It  was  an  owl  that  hit  you  on  the  head  —  of  course 
it  was  an  owl ! "  Then  I  remembered  that,  years 


62  Wilderness  Ways. 

before,  an  older  boy  had  a  horned  owl,  which  he  had 
taken  from  a  nest,  and  which  he  kept  loose  in  a  dark 
garret  over  the  shed.  None  of  us  younger  boys  dared 
go  up  to  the  garret,  for  the  owl  was  always  hungry, 
and  the  moment  a  boy's  head  appeared  through  the 
scuttle  the  owl  said  Hoooo!  and  swooped  for  it.  So 
we  used  to  get  acquainted  with  the  big  pet  by  push- 
ing in  a  dead  rat,  or  a  squirrel,  or  a  chicken,  on  the 
end  of  a  stick,  and  climbing  in  ourselves  afterwards. 

As  I  write,  the  whole  picture  comes  back  to  me 
again  vividly ;  the  dark,  cobwebby  old  garret,  pierced 
here  and  there  by  a  pencil  of  light,  in  which  the  motes 
were  dancing;  the  fierce  bird  down  on  the  floor  in  the 
darkest  corner,  horns  up,  eyes  gleaming,  feathers  all 
a-bristle  till  he  looked  big  as  a  bushel  basket  in  the 
dim  light,  standing  on  his  game  with  one  foot  and 
tearing  it  savagely  to  pieces  with  the  other,  snapping 
his  beak  and  gobbling  up  feathers,  bones  and  all,  in 
great  hungry  mouthfuls;  and,  over  the  scuttle,  two 
or  three  small  boys  staring  in  eager  curiosity,  but 
clinging  to  each  other's  coats  fearfully,  ready  to  tum- 
ble cfown  the  ladder  with  a  yell  at  the  first  hostile 
demonstration. 

The  next  afternoon  I  was  back  in  the  big  woods 
to  investigate.  Fifty  feet  behind  the  thicket  where  I 
had  been  struck  was  a  tall  dead  stub  overlooking  a 


Kookooskoos  and  the  Wrong  Rat.  63 

little  clearing.  "  That 's  his  watch  tower,"  I  thought. 
"  While  I  was  watching  the  deer,  he  was  up  there 
watching  my  head,  and  when  it  moved  he  swooped." 

I  had  no  intention  of  giving  him  another  flight  at 
the  same  game,  but  hid  my  fur  cap  some  distance  out 
in  the  clearing,  tied  a  long  string  to  it,  went  back  into 
the  thicket  with  the  other  end  of  the  string,  and  sat 
down  to  wait.  A  low  Whooo-hoo-hoo !  came  from  across 
the  valley  to  tell  me  I  was  not  the  only  watcher  in  the 
woods. 

Towards  dusk  I  noticed  suddenly  that  the  top  of 
the  old  stub  looked  a  bit  peculiar,  but  it  was  some 
time  before  I  made  out  a  big  owl  sitting  up  there.  I 
had  no  idea  how  long  he  had  been  there,  nor  whence 
he  came.  His  back  was  towards  me;  he  sat  up  very 
straight  and  still,  so  as  to  make  himself  just  a  piece,  the 
tip  end,  of  the  stub.  As  I  watched,  he  hooted  once 
and  bent  forward  to  listen.  Then  I  pulled  on  my 
string. 

With  the  first  rustle  of  a  leaf  he  whirled  and  poised 
forward,  in  the  intense  attitude  an  eagle  takes  when  he 
sights  the  prey.  -On  the  instant  he  had  sighted  the 
cap,  wriggling  in  and  out  among  the  low  bushes,  and 
swooped  for  it  like  an  arrow.  Just  as  he  dropped  his 
legs  to  strike,  I  gave  a  sharp  pull,  and  the  cap  jumped 
from  under  him.  He  missed  his  strike,  but  wheeled 


64  Wilderness  Ways. 

like  a  fury  and  struck  again.  Another  jerk,  and  again 
he  missed.  Then  he  was  at  the  thicket  where  I  stood ; 
his  fierce  yellow  eyes  glared  straight  into  mine  for  a 
startled  instant,  and  he  brushed  me  with  his  wings  as 
he  sailed  away  into  the  shadow  of  the  spruces. 

Small  doubt  now  that  I  had  seen  my  assailant  of 
the  night  before ;  for  an  owl  has  regular  hunting 
grounds,  and  uses  the  same  watch  towers  night  after 
night.  He  had  seen  my  head  in  the  thicket,  and 
struck  at  the  first  movement.  Perceiving  his  mis- 
take, he  kept  straight  on  over  my  head ;  so  of  course 
there  was  nothing  in  sight  when  I  turned.  As  an 
owl's  flight  is  perfectly  noiseless  (the  wing  feathers 
are  wonderfully  soft,  and  all  the  laminae  are  drawn 
out  into  hair  points,  so  that  the  wings  never  whirr  nor 
rustle  like  other  birds')  I  had  heard  nothing,  though 
he  passed  close  enough  to  strike,  and  I  was  listening 
intently.  And  so  another  mystery  of  the  woods  was 
made  plain  by  a  little  watching. 

Years  afterwards,  the  knowledge  gained  stood  me  in 
good  stead  in  clearing  up  another  mystery.  It  was 
in  a  lumber  camp  —  always  a  superstitious  place  —  in 
the  heart  of  a  Canada  forest.  I  had  followed  a  wander- 
ing herd  of  caribou  too  far  one  day,  and  late  in  the 
afternoon  found  myself  alone  at  a  river,  some  twenty 
miles  from  my  camp,  on  the  edge  of  the  barren  grounds. 


Kookooskoos  and  the  Wrong  Rat.  65 

Somewhere  above  me  I  knew  that  a  crew  of  lumber- 
men were  at  work;  so  I  headed  up  river  to  find  their 
camp,  if  possible,  and  avoid  sleeping  out  in  the  snow 
and  bitter  cold.  It  was  long  after  dark,  and  the  moon 
was  flooding  forest  and  river  with  a  wonderful  light, 
when  I  at  last  caught  sight  of  the  camp.  The  click 
of  my  snowshoes  brought  a  dozen  big  men  to  the 
door.  At  that  moment  I  felt  rather  than  saw  that 
they  seemed  troubled  and  alarmed  at  seeing  me  alone ; 
but  I  was  too  tired  to  notice,  and  no  words  save  those 
of  welcome  were  spoken  until  I  had  eaten  heartily. 
Then,  as  I  started  out  for  another  look  at  the  wild 
beauty  of  the  place  under  the  moonlight,  a  lumber- 
man followed  and  touched  me  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Best  not  go  far  from  camp  alone,  sir.  'T  is  n't 
above  safe  hereabouts,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  I 
noticed  that  he  glanced  back  over  his  shoulder  as 
he  spoke. 

"  But  why  ?  "  I  objected.  "  There  's  nothing  in 
these  woods  to  be  afraid  of." 

"  Come  back  to  camp  and  I  '11  tell  you.  It.'s  warmer 
there,"  he  said.  And  I  followed  to  hear  a  strange 
story,  —  how  "Andy  there"  was  sitting  on  a  stump, 
smoking  his  pipe  in  the  twilight,  when  he  was  struck 
and  cut  on  the  head  from  behind ;  and  when  he  sprang 
up  to  look,  there  was  nothing  there,  nor  any  track  save 


66  Wilderness  Ways. 

his  own  in  the  snow.  The  next  night  Gillie's  fur  cap 
had  been  snatched  from  his  head,  and  when  he  turned 
there  was  nobody  in  sight;  and  when  he  burst  into 
camp,  with  all  his  wits  frightened  out  of  him,  he  could 
scarcely  speak,  and  his  face  was  deathly  white.  Other 
uncanny  things  had  happened  since,  in  the  same  way, 
and  coupled  with  a  bad  accident  on  the  river,  which 
the  men  thought  was  an  omen,  they  had  put  the  camp 
into  such  a  state  of  superstitious  fear  that  no  one 
ventured  alone  out  of  doors  after  nightfall. 

I  thought  of  Kookooskoos  and  my  own  head,  but 
said  nothing.  They  would  only  have  resented  the 
suggestion. 

Next  day  I  found  my  caribou,  and  returned  to  the 
lumber  camp  before  sunset.  At  twilight  there  was 
Kookooskoos,  an  enormous  fellow,  looking  like  the 
end  of  a  big  spruce  stub,  keeping  sharp  watch  over 
the  clearing,  and  fortunately  behind  the  camp  where 
he  could  not  see  the  door.  I  called  the  men  and  set 
them  crouching  in  the  snow  under  the  low  eaves.  — 
"  Stay  there  a  minute  and  I  '11  show  you  the  ghost." 
That  was  all  I  told  them. 

Taking  the  skin  of  a  hare  which  I  had  shot  that 
day,  I  hoisted  it  cautiously  on  a  stick,  the  lumbermen 
watching  curiously.  A  slight  scratch  of  the  stick,  a 
movement  of  the  fur  along  the  splits,  then  a  great 


Kookooskoos  and  the  Wrong  Rat.  67 

dark  shadow  shot  over  our  heads.  It  struck  the  stick 
sharply  and  swept  on  and  up  into  the  spruces  across 
the  clearing,  taking  Bunny's  skin  with  it. 

Then  one  big  lumberman,  who  saw  the  point, 
jumped  up  with  a  yell  and  danced  a  jig  in  the  snow, 
like  a  schoolboy.  There  was  no  need  of  further  dem- 
onstration with  a  cap;  and  nobody  volunteered  his 
head  for  a  final  experiment ;  but  all  remembered  see- 
ing the  owl  on  his  nightly  watch,  and  knew  something 
of  his  swooping  habits.  Of  course  some  were  incred- 
ulous at  first,  and  had  a  dozen  questions  and  objec- 
tions when  we  were  in  camp.  No  one  likes  to  have  a 
good  ghost  story  spoiled ;  and,  besides,  where  super- 
stition is,  there  the  marvelous  is  most  easily  believed. 
It  is  only  the  simple  truth  that  is  doubted.  So  I 
spent  half  the  night  in  convincing  them  that  they  had 
been  brought  up  in  the  woods  to  be  scared  by  an  owl. 

Poor  Kookooskoos !  they  shot  him  next  night  on 
his  watch  tower,  and  nailed  him  to  the  camp  door 
as  a  warning. 

I  discovered  another  curious  thing  about  Kookoos- 
koos that  night  when  I  watched  to  find  out  what  had 
struck  me.  I  found  out  why  he  hoots.  Sometimes, 
if  he  is  a  young  owl,  he  hoots  for  practice,  or  to  learn 
how ;  and  then  he  makes  an  awful  noise  of  it,  a  rasp- 
ing screech,  before  his  voice  deepens.  And  if  you  are 


68  Wilderness  Ways. 

camping  near  and  are  new  to  the  woods,  the  chances 
are  that  you  lie  awake  and  shiver;  for  there  is  no 
other  sound  like  it  in  the  wilderness.  Sometimes, 
when  you- climb  to  his  nest,  he  has  a  terrifying  hoo-hoo- 
hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo,  running  up  and  down  a  deep  guttural 
scale,  like  a  fiendish  laugh,  accompanied  by  a  vicious 
snapping  of  the  beak.  And  if  you  are  a  small  boy, 
and  it  is  towards  twilight,  you  climb  down  the  tree 
quick  and  let  his  nest  alone.  But  the  regular  whooo- 
hoo-hoo,  whooo-hoo,  al  ways :  five  notes,  with  the  second 
two  very  short,  is  a  hunting  call,  and  he  uses  it  to 
alarm  the  game.  That  is  queer  hunting ;  but  his 
ears  account  for  it. 

If  you  separate  the  feathers  on  Kookooskoos'  head, 
you  will  find  an  enormous  ear-opening  running  from 
above  his  eye  halfway  round  his  face.  And  the  ear 
within  is  so  marvelously  sensitive  that  it  can  hear  the 
rustle  of  a  rat  in  the  grass,  or  the  scrape  of  a  spar- 
row's toes  on  a  branch  fifty  feet  away.  So  he  sits  on 
his  watch  tower,  so  still  that  he  is  never  noticed,  and 
as  twilight  comes  on,  when  he  can  see  best,  he  hoots 
suddenly  and  listens.  The  sound  has  a  muffled 
quality  which  makes  it  hard  to  locate,  and  it  fright- 
ens every  bird  and  small  animal  within  hearing;  for 
all  know  Kookooskoos,  and  how  fierce  he  is.  As  the 
terrifying  sound  rolls  out  of  the  air  so  near  them,  fur 


Kookooskoos  and  the  Wrong  Rat.  69 

and  feathers  shiver  with  fright.  A  rabbit  stirs  in  his 
form ;  a  partridge  shakes  on  his  branch ;  the  mink 
stops  hunting  frogs  at  the  brook;  the  skunk  takes  his 
nose  out  of  the  hole  where  he  is  eating  sarsaparilla 
roots.  A  leaf  stirs,  a  toe  scrapes,  and  instantly  Koo- 
kooskoos is  there.  His  fierce  eyes  glare  in ;  his  great 
claws  drop ;  one  grip,  and  it 's  all  over.  For  the  very 
sight  of  him  scares  the  little  creatures  so,  that  there  is 
no  life  left  in  them  to  cry  out  or  to  run  away. 

A  nest  which  I  found  a  few  years  ago  shows  how 
well  this  kind  of  hunting  succeeds.  It  was  in  a 
gloomy  evergreen  swamp,  in  a  big  tree,  some  eighty 
feet  from  the  ground.  I  found  it  by  a  pile  of  pellets 
of  hair  and  feathers  at  the  foot  of  the  tree;  for  the 
owl  devours  every  part  of  his  game,  and  after  diges- 
tion is  complete,  feathers,  bones,  and  hair  are  dis- 
gorged in  small  balls,  like  so  many  sparrow  heads. 
When  I  looked  up,  there  at  the  top  was  a  huge  mass 
of  sticks,  which  had  been  added  to  year  after  year  till 
it  was  nearly  three  feet  across,  and  half  as  thick. 
Kookooskoos  was  not  there.  He  had  heard  me 
coming  and  slipped  away  silently. 

Wishing  to  be  sure  the  nest  was  occupied  before 
trying  the  hard  climb,  I  went  away  as  far  as  I  could 
see  the  nest  and  hid  in  a  thicket.  Presently  a  very 
large  owl  came  back  and  stood  by  the  nest.  Soon 


70  Wilderness  Ways. 

after,  a  smaller  bird,  the  male,  glided  up  beside  her. 
Then  I  came  on  cautiously,  watching  to  see  what 
they  would  do. 

At  the  first  crack  of  a  twig  both  birds  started  for- 
ward; the  male  slipped  away;  the  female  dropped 
below  the  nest,  and  stood  behind  a  limb,  just  her  face 
peering  through  a  crotch  in  my  direction.  Had  I  not 
known  she  was  there,  I  might  have  looked  the  tree 
over  twenty  times  without  finding  her.  And  there 
she  stayed  hidden  till  I  was  halfway  up  the  tree. 

When  I  peered  at  last  over  the  edge  of  the  big 
nest,  after  a  desperately  hard  climb,  there  was  a 
bundle  of  dark  gray  down  in  a  little  hollow  in  the 
middle.  It  touched  me  at  the  time  that  the  little 
ones  rested  on  a  feather  bed  pulled  from  the  mother 
bird's  own  breast.  I  brushed  the  down  with  my 
fingers.  Instantly,  two  heads  came  up,  fuzzy  gray 
heads,  with  black  pointed  beaks,  and  beautiful  hazel 
eyes,  and  a  funny  long  pin-feather  over  each  ear, 
which  made  them  look  like  little  wise  old  clerks 
just  waked  up.  When  I  touched  them  again  they 
staggered  up  and  opened  their  mouths,  —  enormous 
mouths  for  such  little  fellows ;  then,  seeing  that  I 
was  an  intruder,  they  tried  to  bristle  their  few  pin- 
feathers  and  snap  their  beaks. 

They  were  fat  as  two  aldermen ;   and  no  wonder. 


Kookooskoos  and  the  Wrong  Rat.  71 

Placed  around  the  edge  of  the  big  nest  were  a  red 
squirrel,  a  rat,  a  chicken,  a  few  frogs'  legs,  and  a  rab- 
bit. Fine  fare  that,  at  eighty  feet  from  the  ground. 
Kookooskoos  had  had  good  hunting.  All  the  game 
was  partly  eaten,  showing  I  had  disturbed  their  din- 
ner; and  only  the  hinder  parts  were  left,  showing 
that  owls  like  the  head  and  brains  best.  I  left  them 
undisturbed  and  came  away;  for  I  wanted  to  watch 
the  young  grow  —  which  they  did  marvelously,  and 
were  presently  learning  to  hoot.  But  I  have  been 
less  merciful  to  the  great  owls  ever  since,  thinking 
of  the  enormous  destruction  of  game  represented  in 
raising  two  or  three  such  young  savages,  year  after 
year,  in  the  same  swamp. 

Once,  at  twilight,  I  shot  a  big  owl  that  was  sitting 
on  a  limb  facing  me,  with  what  appeared  to  be  an 
enormously  long  tail  hanging  below  the  limb.  The 
tail  turned  out  to  be  a  large  mink,  just  killed,  with  a 
beautiful  skin  that  put  five  dollars  into  a  boy's  locker. 
Another  time  I  shot  one  that  sailed  over  me;  when 
he  came  down>  there  was  a  ruffed  grouse,  still  living, 
in  his  claws.  Another  time  I  could  not  touch  one 
that  I  had  killed  for  the  overpowering  odor  which 
was  in  his  feathers,  showing  that  Mephitis,  the  skunk, 
never  loses  his  head  when  attacked.  But  Kookoos- 
koos, like  the  fox,  cares  little  for  such  weapons,  and 


72  Wilderness  Ways. 

in  the  spring,  when  game  is  scarce,  swoops  for  and 
kills  a  skunk  wherever  he  finds  him  prowling  away 
from  his  den  in  the  twilight. 

The  most  savage  bit  of  his  hunting  that  I  ever  saw 
was  one  dark  winter  afternoon,  on  the  edge  of  some 
thick  woods.  I  was  watching  a  cat,  a  half- wild  crea- 
ture, that  was  watching  a  red  squirrel  making  a  great 
fuss  over  some  nuts  which  he  had  hidden,  and  which 
he  claimed  somebody  had  stolen.  Somewhere  behind 
us,  Kookooskoos  was  watching  from  a  pine  tree. 
The  squirrel  was  chattering  in  the  midst  of  a  whirl- 
wind of  leaves  and  empty  shells  which  he  had  thrown 
out  on  the  snow  from  under  the  wall ;  behind  him  the 
cat,  creeping  nearer  and  nearer,  had  crouched  with 
blazing  eyes  and  quivering  muscles,  her  whole  atten- 
tion fixed  on  the  spring,  when  broad  wings  shot 
silently  over  my  hiding  place  and  fell  like  a  shadow 
on  the  cat.  One  set  of  strong  claws  gripped  her 
behind  the  ears ;  the  others  were  fastened  like  a  vise 
in  the  spine.  Generally  one  such  grip  is  enough; 
but  the  cat  was  strong,  and  at  the  first  touch  sprang 
away.  In  a  moment  the  owl  was  after  her,  floating, 
hovering  above,  till  the  right  moment  came,  when  he 
dropped  and  struck  again.  Then  the  cat  whirled  and 
fought  like  a  fury.  For  a  few  moments  there  was  a 
desperate  battle,  fur  and  feathers  flying,  the  cat 


Kookooskoos  and  the  Wrong  Rat.  73 

screeching  like  mad,  the  owl  silent  as  death.  Then 
the  great  claws  did  their  work.  When  I  straightened 
up  from  my  thicket,  Kookooskoos  was  standing  on 
his  game,  tearing  off  the  flesh  with  his  feet,  and  carry- 
ing it  up  to  his  mouth  with  the  same  movement, 
swallowing  everything  alike,  as  if  famished. 

Over  them  the  squirrel,  which  had  whisked  up  a  tree 
at  the  first  alarm,  was  peeking  with  evil  eyes  over  the 
edge  of  a  limb,  snickering  at  the  blood-stained  snow  and 
the  dead  cat,  scolding,  barking,  threatening  the  owl  for 
having  disturbed  the  search  for  his  stolen  walnuts. 

I  caught  that  same  owl  soon  after  in  a  peculiar 
way.  A  farmer  near  by  told  me  that  an  owl  was 
taking  his  chickens  regularly.  Undoubtedly  the  bird 
had  been  driven  southward  by  the  severe  winter,  and 
had  not  taken  up  regular  hunting  grounds  until  he 
caught  the  cat.  Then  came  the  chickens.  I  set  up 
a  pole,  on  the  top  of  which  was  nailed  a  bit  of  board 
for  a  platform.  On  the  platform  was  fastened  a  small 
steel  trap,  and  under  it  hung  a  dead  chicken.  The 
next  morning  there  was  Kookooskoos  on  the  plat- 
form, one  foot  in  the  trap,  at  which  he  was  pulling 
awkwardly.  Owls,  from  their  peculiar  ways  of  hunt- 
ing, are  prone  to  light  on  stubs  and  exposed  branches ; 
and  so  Kookooskoos  had  used  my  pole  as  a  watch 
tower  before  carrying  off  his  game. 


74  Wilderness  Ways. 

There  is  another  way  in  which  he  is  easily  fooled. 
In  the  early  spring,  when  he  is  mating,  and  again  in 
the  autumn,  when  the  young  birds  are  well  fed  and 
before  they  have  learned  much,  you  can  bring  him 
close  up  to  you  by  imitating  his  hunting  call.  In  the 
wilderness,  where  these  birds  are  plenty,  I  have  often 
had  five  or  six  about  me  at  once.  You  have  only  to 
go  well  out  beyond  your  tent,  and  sit  down  quietly, 
making  yourself  part  of  the  place.  Give  the  call  a 
few  times,  and  if  there  is  a  young  bird  near  with  a 
full  stomach,  he  will  answer,  and  presently  come 
nearer.  Soon  he  is  in  the  tree  over  your  head,  and 
if  you  keep  perfectly  still  he  will  set  up  a  great  hoot- 
ing that  you  have  called  him  and  now  do  not  answer. 
Others  are  attracted  by  his  calling ;  they  come  in 
silently  from  all  directions;  the  outcry  is  startling. 
The  call  is  more  nervous,  more  eerie,  much  more 
terrifying  close  at  hand  than  when  heard  in  the  dis- 
tance. They  sweep  about  like  great  dark  shadows, 
hoo-hoo-hooing  and  frolicking  in  their  own  uncanny 
way ;  then  go  off  to  their  separate  watch  towers  and 
their  hunting.  But  the  chances  are  that  you  will  be 
awakened  with  a  start  more  than  once  in  the  night, 
as  some  inquisitive  young  owl  comes  back  and  gives 
the  hunting  call  in  the  hope  of  finding  out  what  the 
first  summons  was  all  about. 


V.     CHIGWOOLTZ    THE    FROG. 


WAS  watching  for  a  bear  one  day 
by  an  alder  point,  when  Chigwooltz 
came  swimming  in  from  the  lily 
pads  in  great  curiosity  to  see  what 
I  was  doing  under  the  alders.  He 
was  an  enormous  frog,  dull  green 
with  a  yellowish  vest  —  which 
showed  that  he  was  a  male  —  but 
with  the  most  brilliant  ear  drums  I 
had  ever  seen.  They  fairly  glowed 
with  iridescent  color,  each  in  its 
ring  of  bright  yellow.  When  I 
tried  to  catch  him  (very  quietly,  for  the  bear  was 
somewhere  just  above  on  the  ridge)  in  order  to 
examine  these  drums,  he  dived  under  the  canoe  and 
watched  me  from  a  distance. 

In  front  of  me,  in  the  shallow  water  along  shore, 
four  more  large  frogs  were  sunning  themselves  among 
the  lily  pads.  I  watched  them  carelessly  while  wait- 
ing for  the  bear.  After  an  hour  or  two  I  noticed 
that  three  of  these  frogs  changed  their  positions 

75 


76  Wilderness  Ways. 

slightly,  turning  from  time  to  time  so  as  to  warm  the 
entire  body  at  nature's  fireplace.  But  the  fourth  was 
more  deliberate  and  philosophical,  thinking  evidently 
that  if  he  simply  sat  still  long  enough  the  sun  would 
do  the  turning.  When  I  came,  about  eleven  o'clock, 
he  was  sitting  on  the  shore  by  a  green  stone,  his  fore 
feet  lapped  by  tiny  ripples,  the  sun  full  on  his  back. 
For  three  hours,  while  I  watched  there,  he  never 
moved  a  muscle.  Then  the  bear  came,  and  I  left 
him  for  more  exciting  things. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  I  came  back  to  get  some  of 
the  big  frogs  for  breakfast.  Chigwooltz,  he  with  the 
ear  drums,  was  the  first  to  see  me,  and  came  pushing 
his  way  among  the  lily  pads  toward  the  canoe.  But 
when  I  dangled  a  red  ibis  fly  in  front  of  him,  he  dived 
promptly,  and  I  saw  his  head  come  up  by  a  black 
root,  where  he  sat,  thinking  himself  invisible,  and 
watched  me. 

Chigwooltz  the  second,  he  of  the  green  stone  and 
the  patient  disposition,  was  still  sitting  in  the  same 
place.  The  sun  had  turned  round ;  it  was  now  warm- 
ing his  other  side.  His  all-day  sun  bath  surprised 
me  so  that  I  let  him  alone,  to  see  how  long  he  would 
sit  still,  and  went  fishing  for  other  frogs. 

Two  big  ones  showed  their  heads  among  the  pads 
some  twenty  feet  apart.  Pushing  up  so  as  to  make 


C/iigwoo/tz  the  Frog.  77 

a  triangle  with  my  canoe,  I  dangled  a  red  ibis  impar- 
tially between  them.  For  two  or  three  long  minutes 
neither  moved  so  much  as  an  eyelid.  Then  one 
seemed  to  wake  suddenly  from  a  trance,  or  to  be 
touched  by  an  electric  wire,  for  he  came  scrambling 
in  a  desperate  hurry  over  the  lily  pads.  Swimming 
was  too  slow;  he  jumped  fiercely  out  of  water  at  the 
red  challenge,  making  a  great  splash  and  commotion. 

Fishing  for  big  frogs,  by  the  way,  is  no  tame  sport. 
The  red  seems  to  excite  them  tremendously,  and  they 
take  the  fly  like  a  black  salmon. 

But  the  moment  the  first  frog  started,  frog  number 
two  waked  up  and  darted  forward,  making  less  noise 
but  coming  more  swiftly.  The  first  frog  had  jumped 
once  for  the  fly  and  missed  it,  when  the  other  leaped 
upon  him  savagely,  and  a  fight  began,  while  the  ibis 
lay  neglected  on  a  lily  pad.  They  pawed  and  bit 
each  other  fiercely  for  several  minutes;  then  the 
second  frog,  a  little  smaller  than  the  other,  got  the 
grip  he  wanted  and  held  it.  He  clasped  his  fore 
legs  tight  about  his  rival's  neck  and  began  to  strangle 
him  slowly.  I  knew  well  how  strong  Cliigwooltz  is 
in  his  forearms,  and  that  his  fightings  and  wrestlings 
are  desperate  affairs;  but  I  did  not  know  till  then 
how  savage  he  can  be.  He  had  gripped  from  behind 
by  a  clever  dive,  so  as  to  use  his  weight  when  the  right 


78  Wilderness  Ways. 

moment  came.  Tighter  and  tighter  he  hugged ;  the 
big  frog's  eyes  seemed  bursting  from  his  head,  and 
his  mouth  was  forced  slowly  open.  Then  his  savage 
opponent  lunged  upon  him  with  his  weight,  and 
forced  his  head  under  water  to  finish  him. 

The  whole  thing  seemed  scarcely  more  startling 
to  the  luckless  big  frog  than  to  the  watcher  in  the 
canoe.  It  was  all  so  brutal,  so  deliberately  planned ! 
The  smaller  frog,  knowing  that  he  was  no  match  for 
the  other  in  strength,  had  waited  cunningly  till  he 
was  all  absorbed  in  the  red  fly,  and  then  stole  upon 
him,  intending  to  finish  him  first  and  the  little  red 
thing  afterwards.  He  would  have  done  it  too;  for 
the  big  frog  was  at  his  last  gasp,  when  I  interfered 
and  put  them  both  in  my  net. 

Meanwhile  a  third  frog  had  come  walloping  over 
the  lily  pads  from  somewhere  out  of  sight,  and 
grabbed  the  fly  while  the  other  two  were  fighting 
about  it.  It  was  he  who  first  showed  me  a  curious 
frog  trick.  When  I  lifted  him  from  the  water  on  the 
end  of  my  line,  he  raised  his  hands  above  his  head,  as 
if  he  had  been  a  man,  and  grasped  the  line,  and  tried 
to  lift  himself,  hand  over  hand,  so  as  to  take  the 
strain  from  his  mouth.  —  And  I  could  never  catch 
another  frog  like  that. 

Next  morning,  as  I  went  to  the  early  fishing,  Chig- 


Chigwooltz,  the  Frog.  79 

wooltz,  the  patient,  sat  by  the  same  stone,  his  fore 
feet  at  the  edge  of  the  same  bronze  lily  leaf.  At 
noon  he  was  still  there ;  in  twenty-four  hours  at  least 
he  had  not  moved  a  muscle. 

At  twilight  I  was  following  a  bear  along  the  shore. 
It  was  the  restless  season,  when  bears  are  moving 
constantly ;  scarcely  a  twilight  passed  that  I  did  not 
meet  one  or  more  on  their  wanderings.  This  one 
was  heading  for  the  upper  end  of  the  lake,  traveling 
in  the  shallow  water  near  shore;  and  I  was  just 
behind  him,  stealing  along  in  my  canoe  to  see  what 
queer  thing  he  would  do.  He  was  in  no  hurry,  as 
most  other  bears  were,  but  went  nosing  along  shore, 
acting  much  as  a  fat  pig  would  in  the  same  place. 
As  he  approached  the  alder  point  he  stopped  sud- 
denly, and  twisted  his  head  a  bit,  and  set  his  ears,  as  a 
dog  does  that  sees  something  very  interesting.  Then 
he  began  to  steal  forward.  Could  it  be  —  I  shot  my 
canoe  forward  —  yes,  it  was  Chigwooltz,  still  sitting 
by  the  green  stone,  with  his  eye,  like  Bunsby's,  on 
the  coast  of  Greenland.  In  thirty-two  hours,  to  my 
knowledge,  he  had  not  stirred. 

Mooween  the  bear  crept  nearer;  he  was  crouching 
now  like  a  cat,  stealing  along  in  the  soft  mud  behind 
Chigwooltz  so  as  to  surprise  him.  I  sa\v  him  raise 
one  paw  slowly,  cautiously,  high  above  his  head. 


8o  Wilderness  Ways. 

Down  it  came,  souse!  sending  up  a  shower  of  mud 
and  water.  And  Chigwooltz  the  restful,  who  could 
sit  still  thirty-two  hours  without  getting  stiff  in  the 
joints,  and  then  dodge  the  sweep  of  Mooween's  paw, 
went  splashing  away  hippety-ippety  over  the  lily  pads 
to  some  water  grass,  where  he  said  K'tung /  and  dis- 
appeared for  good. 

A  few  days  later  Simmo  and  I  moved  camp  to  a 
grove  of  birches  just  above  the  alder  point.  From 
behind  my  tent  an  old  game  path  led  down  to  the  bay 
where  the  big  frogs  lived.  There  were  scores  of  them 
there;  the  chorus  at  night,  with  its  multitude  of 
voices  running  from  a  whistling  treble  to  deep,  deep 
bass,  was  at  times  tremendous.  It  was  here  that  I 
had  the  first  good  opportunity  of  watching  frogs 
feeding. 

Chigwooltz,  I  found,  is  a  perfect  gourmand  and  a 
cannibal,  eating,  besides  his  regular  diet  of  flies  and 
beetles  and  water  snails,  young  frogs,  and  crawfish, 
and  turtles,  and  fish  of  every  kind.  But  few  have 
ever  seen  him  at  his  hunting,  for  he  is  active  only 
at  night  or  on  dark  days. 

I  used  to  watch  them  from  the  shore  or  from  my 
canoe  at  twilight.  Just  outside  the  lily  pads  a  shoal 
of  minnows  would  be  playing  at  the  surface,  or  small 
trout  would  be  rising  freely  for  the  night  insects. 


Chigwooltz,  the  Frog.  81 

Then,  if  you  watched  sharply,  you  would  see  gleam- 
ing points  of  light,  the  eyes  of  Chigwooltz,  stealing 
out,  with  barely  a  ripple,  to  the  edge  of  the  pads.  And 
then,  when  some  big  feeding  trout  drove  the  minnows 
or  small  fry  close  in,  there  would  be  a  heavy  plunge 
from  the  shadow  of  the  pads;  and  you  would  hear 
Chigwooltz  splashing  if  the  fish  were  a  larger  one 
than  he  expected. 

That  is  why  small  frogs  are  so  deadly  afraid  if  you 
take  them  outside  the  fringe  of  lily  pads.  They 
know  that  big  hungry  trout  feed  in  from  the  deeps, 
and  that  big  frogs,  savage  cannibals  every  one,  watch 
out  from  the  shadowy  fringe  of  water  plants.  If  you 
drop  a  little  frog  there,  in  clear  water,  he  will  shoot 
in  as  fast  as  his  frightened  legs  will  drive  him,  swim- 
ming first  on  top  to  avoid  fish,  diving  deep  as  he 
reaches  the  pads  to  avoid  his  hungry  relatives ;  and  so 
in  to  shallow  water  and  thick  stems,  where  he  can 
dodge  about  and  the  big  frogs  cannot  follow. 

All  sorts  and  conditions  of  frogs  lived  in  that  little 
bay.  There  was  one  inquisitive  fellow,  who  always 
came  out  of  the  pads  and  swam  as  near  as  he  could 
get  whenever  I  appeared  on  the  shore.  Another 
would  sit  in  his  favorite  spot,  under  a  stranded  log, 
and  let  me  come  as  close  as  I  would;  but  the  moment 
I  dangled  the  red  ibis  fly  in  front  of  him,  he  would 


82  Wilderness  Ways. 

disappear  like  a  wink,  and  not  show  himself  again. 
Another  would  follow  the  fly  in  a  wild  kangaroo 
dance  over  the  lily  pads,  going  round  and  round  the 
canoe  as  if  bewitched,  and  would  do  his  best  to  climb 
in  after  the  bit  of  color  when  I  pulled  it  up  slowly 
over  the  bark.  He  afforded  me  so  much  good  fun 
that  I  could  not  eat  him ;  though  I  always  stopped  to 
give  him  another  dance,  whenever  I  went  fishing  for 
other  frogs  just  like  him.  Further  along  shore  lived 
another,  a  perfect  savage,  so  wild  that  I  could  never 
catch  him,  which  strangled  or  drowned  two  big  frogs 
in  a  week,  to  my  certain  knowledge.  And  then,  one 
night  when  I  was  trying  to  find  my  canoe  which  I 
had  lost  in  the  darkness,  I  came  upon  a  frog  migra- 
tion, dozens  and  dozens  of  them,  all  hopping  briskly 
in  the  same  direction.  They  had  left  the  stream, 
driven  by  some  strange  instinct,  just  like  rats  or 
squirrels,  and  were  going  through  the  woods  to  the 
unknown  destination  that  beckoned  them  so  strongly 
that  they  could  not  but  follow. 

The  most  curious  and  interesting  bit  of  their 
strange  life  came  out  at  night,  when  they  were  fas- 
cinated by  my  light.  I  used  sometimes  to  set  a 
candle  on  a  piece  of  board  for  a  float,  and  place  it  in 
the  water  close  to  shore,  where  the  ripples  would  set 
it  dancing  gently.  Then  I  would  place  a  little  screen 


Never  a  word  was  spoken:    the  silence  was  perfect 


Chigwooltz,  the  Frog.  83 

of  bark  at  the  shore  end  of  the  float,  and  sit  down 
behind  it  in  darkness. 

Presently  two  points  of  light  would  begin  to  shine, 
then  to  scintillate,  out  among  the  lily  pads,  and  Chig- 
wooltz  would  come  stealing  in,  his  eyes  growing  big- 
ger and  brighter  with  wonder.  He  would  place  his 
forearms  akimbo  on  the  edge  of  the  float,  and  lift 
himself  up  a  bit;  like  a  little  old  man,  and  stare  stead- 
fastly at  the  light.  And  there  he  would  stay  as  long 
as  I  let  him,  just  staring  and  blinking. 

Soon  two  other  points  of  light  would  come  stealing 
in  from  the  other  side,  and  another  frog  would  set  his 
elbows  on  the  float  and  stare  hard  across  at  the  first- 
comer.  And  then  two  more  shining  points,  and  two 
more,  till  twelve  or  fifteen  frogs  were  gathered  about 
my  beacon,  as  thick  as  they  could  find  elbow  room  on 
the  float,  all  staring  and  blinking  like  so  many  strange 
water  owls  come  up  from  the  bottom  to  debate 
weighty  things,  with  a  little  flickering  will-o'-the-wisp 
nodding  grave  assent  in  the  midst  of  them.  But 
never  a  word  was  spoken;  the  silence  was  perfect. 

Sometimes  one,  more  fascinated  or  more  curious 
than  the  others,  would  climb  onto  the  float,  and 
put  his  nose  solemnly  into  the  light.  Then  there 
would  be  a  loud  sizzle,  a  jump,  and  a  splash;  the 
candle  would  go  out,  and  the  wondering  circle  of 


84  Wilderness  Ways. 

frogs  scatter  to  the  lily  pads  again,  all  swimming 
as  if  in  a  trance,  dipping  their  heads  under  water 
to  wash  the  light  from  their  bewildered  eyes. 

They  were  quite  fearless,  almost  senseless,  at  such 
times.  I  would  stretch  out  my  hand  from  the  shadow, 
pick  up  an  unresisting  frog  that  threatened  too  soon 
to  climb  onto  the  float,  and  examine  him  at  leisure. 
But  Chigwooltz  is  wedded  to  his  idols;  the  moment 
I  released  him  he  would  go,  fast  as  his  legs  could 
carry  him,  to  put  his  elbows  on  the  float  and  stare  at 
the  light  again. 

Among  the  frogs,  and  especially  among  the  toads, 
as  among  most  wild  animals,  certain  individuals  attach 
themselves  strongly  to  man,  drawn  doubtless  by  some 
unknown  but  no  less  strongly  felt  attraction.  It  was 
so  there  in  the  wilderness.  The  first  morning  after 
our  arrival  at  the  birch  grove  I  was  down  at  the 
shore,  preparing  a  trout  for  baking  in  the  ashes,  when 
Chigwooltz,  of  the  ear  drums,  biggest  of  all  the  frogs, 
came  from  among  the  lily  pads.  He  had  lost  all  fear 
apparently ;  he  swam  directly  up  to  me,  touching  my 
hands  with  his  nose,  and  even  crawling  out  to  my  feet 
in  the  greatest  curiosity. 

After  that  he  took  up  his  abode  near  the  foot  of  the 
game  path.  I  had  only  to  splash  the  water  there  with 
my  finger  when  he  would  come  from  beside  a  green 


Chigwooltz  the  Frog.  85 

stone,  or  from  under  a  log  or  the  lily  pads  —  for  he 
had  a  dozen  hiding  places  —  and  swim  up  to  me  to 
be  fed,  or  petted,  or  to  have  his  back  scratched. 

He  ate  all  sorts  of  things,  insects,  bread,  beef,  game 
and  fish,  either  raw  or  cooked.  I  would  attach  a  bit 
of  meat  to  a  string  or  straw,  and  wiggle  it  before  him, 
to  make  it  seem  alive.  The  moment  he  saw  it  (he 
had  a  queer  way  sometimes  of  staring  hard  at  a  thing 
without  seeing  it)  he  would  crouch  and  creep  towards 
it,  nearer  and  nearer,  softly  and  more  softly,  like  a  cat 
stalking  a  chipmunk.  Then  there  would  be  a  red 
flash  and  the  meat  would  be  gone.  The  red  flash 
was  his  tongue,  which  is  attached  at  the  outer  end 
and  folds  back  in  his  mouth.  It  is,  moreover,  large 
and  sticky,  and  he  can  throw  it  out  and  back  like 
lightning.  All  you  see  is  the  red  flash  of  it,  and  his 
game  is  gone. 

One  day,  to  try  the  effects  of  nicotine  on  a  new 
subject,  I  took  a  bit  of  Simmo's  black  tobacco  and 
gave  it  to  Chigwooltz.  He  ate  it  thankfully,  as  he 
did  everything  else  I  gave  him.  In  a  little  while  he 
grew  uneasy,  sitting  up  and  rubbing  his  belly  with  his 
fore  paws.  Presently  he  brought  his  stomach  up  into 
his  mouth,  turned  it  inside  out  to  get  rid  of  the 
tobacco,  washed  it  thoroughly  in  the  lake,  swallowed 
it  down  again,  and  was  ready  for  his  bread  and  beef. 


86  Wilderness  Ways. 

A  most  convenient  arrangement  that ;  and  also  a  per- 
fectly unbiased  opinion  on  a  much  debated  subject. 

Chigwooltz,  unlike  many  of  my  pets,  was  not  in  the 
least  dependent  on  my  bounty.  Indeed,  he  was  a 
remarkable  hunter  on  his  own  account,  and  what  he 
took  from  me  he  took  as  hospitality,  not  charity. 
One  morning  he  came  to  me  with  the  tail  of  a  small 
trout  sticking  out  of  his  mouth.  The  rest  of  the  fish 
was  below,  being  digested.  Another  day,  towards 
twilight,  I  saw  him  resting  on  the  lily  pads,  looking 
very  full,  with  a  suspicious-looking  object  curling  out 
over  his  under  lip.  I  wiggled  my  finger  in  the  water, 
and  he  came  from  pure  sociability,  for  he  was  beyond 
eating  any  more.  The  suspicious-looking  object  proved 
to  be  a  bird's  foot,  and  beside  it  was  a  pointed  wing 
tip.  That  was  too  much  for  my  curiosity.  I  opened 
his  mouth  and  pulled  out  the  bird  with  some  diffi- 
culty, for  Chigwooltz  had  been  engaged  some  time  in 
the  act  of  swallowing  his  game  and  had  it  well  down. 
It  proved  to  be  a  full-grown  male  swallow,  without 
a  mark  anywhere  to  show  how  he  had  come  by  his 
death.  Chigwooltz  looked  at  me  reproachfully,  but 
swallowed  his  game  promptly  the  moment  I  had 
finished  examining  it. 

There  was  small  doubt  in  my  mind  that  he  had 
caught  his  bird  fairly,  by  a  quick  spring  as  the  swallow 


Cfitgwooltz  the  Frog.  87 

touched  the  water  almost  at  his  nose,  near  one  of  his 
numerous  lurking  places.  Still  it  puzzled  me  a  good 
deal  till  one  early  morning,  when  I  saw  him  in  broad 
daylight  do  a  much  more  difficult  thing  than  snap- 
ping up  a  swallow. 

I  was  coming  down  the  game  path  to  the  shore 
when  a  bird,  a  tree  sparrow  I  thought,  flew  .to  the 
ground  just  ahead  of  me,  and  hopped  to  the  water 
to  drink.  I  watched  him  a  moment  curiously,  then 
with  intense  interest  as  I  saw  a  ripple  steal  out  of  the 
lily  pads  towards  him.  The  ripple  was  Chigwooltz. 

The  sparrow  had  finished  drinking  and  was  absorbed 
in  a  morning  bath.  Chigwooltz  stole  nearer  and 
nearer,  sinking  himself  till  only  his  eyes  showed 
above  water.  The  ripple  that  flowed  away  on  either 
side  was  gentle  as  that  of  a  floating  leaf.  Then,  just 
as  the  bird  had  sipped  and  lifted  its  head  for  a  last 
swallow,  Chigwooltz  hurled  himself  out  of  water. 
One  snap  of  his  big  mouth,  and  the  sparrow  was 
done  for. 

An  hour  later,  when  I  came  down  to  my  canoe,  he 
was  sitting  low  on  the  lily  pads,  winking  sleepily  now 
and  then,  with  eight  little  sparrow's  toes  curling  over 
the  rim  of  his  under  lip,  like  a  hornpout's  whiskers. 


VI.     CLOUD    WINGS    THE    EAGLE. 

ERE  he  is  again!  here's  Old  White- 
head,  robbing  the  fish-hawk." 

I  started  up  from  the  little  com- 
moosie  beyond  the  fire,  at  Gillie's 
excited  cry,  and  ran  to  join  him  on 
the  shore.  A  glance  out  over  Caribou 
Point  to  the  big  bay,  where  innumer- 
able whitefish  were  shoaling,  showed 
me  another  chapter  in  a  long  but 
always  interesting  story.  Ismaquehs, 
the  fish-hawk,  had  risen  from  the  lake 
with  a  big  fish,  and  was  doing  his  best 
to  get  away  to  his  nest,  where  his  young 
ones  were  clamoring.  Over  him  soared 
the  eagle,  still  as  fate  and  as  sure,  now 
dropping  to  flap  a  wing  in  Ismaquehs' 
face,  now  touching  him  with  his  great 
talons  gently,  as  if  to  say,  "  Do  you  feel 
that,  Ismaquehs?  If  I  grip  once  'twill 
be  the  end  of  you  and  your  fish  together.  And 
what  will  the  little  ones  do  then,  up  in  the  nest  on 

88 


There  he  poised  on  dark  broad  wings 


Cloud  Wings  the  Eagle.  89 

the  old  pine?  Better  drop  him  peacefully;  you  can 
catch  another.  —  Drop  him  /  I  say." 

Up  to  that  moment  the  eagle  had  merely  bothered 
the  big  hawk's  flight,  with  a  gentle  reminder  now  and 
then  that  he  meant  no  harm,  but  wanted  the  fish 
which  he  could  not  catch  himself.  Now  there  was  a 
change,  a  flash  of  the  king's  temper.  With  a  roar  of 
wings  he  whirled  round  the  hawk  like  a  tempest, 
bringing  up  short  and  fierce,  squarely  in  his  line  of 
flight.  There  he  poised  on  dark  broad  wings,  his 
yellow  eyes  glaring  fiercely  into  the  shrinking  soul 
of  Ismaquehs,  his  talons  drawn  hard  back  for  a  deadly 
strike.  And  Simmo  the  Indian,  who  had  run  down 
to  join  me,  muttered:  "Cheplahgan  mad  now.  Isma- 
quehs find-um  out  in  a  minute." 

But  Ismaquehs  knew  just  when  to  stop.  With  a  cry 
of  rage  he  dropped,  or  rather  threw,  his  fish,  hoping 
it  would  strike  the  water  and  be  lost.  On  the  instant 
the  eagle  wheeled  out  of  the  way  and  bent  his  head 
sharply.  I  had  seen  him  fold  wings  and  drop  before, 
and  had  held  my  breath  at  the  speed.  But  dropping 
was  of  no  use  now,  for  the  fish  fell  faster.  Instead 
he  swooped  downward,  adding  to  the  weight  of  his  fall 
the  push  of  his  strong  wings,  glancing  down  like  a 
bolt  to  catch  the  fish  ere  it  struck  the  water,  and  rising 
again  in  a  great  curve  — up  and  away  steadily,  evenly 


QO  Wilderness  Ways. 

as  the  king  should  fly,  to  his  own  little  ones  far  away 
on  the  mountain. 

Weeks  before,  I  had  had  my  introduction  to  Old 
Whitehead,  as  Gillie  called  him,  on  the  Madawaska. 
We  were  pushing  up  river  on  our  way  to  the  wilder- 
ness, when  a  great  outcry  and  the  bang-bang  of  a  gun 
sounded  just  ahead.  Dashing  round  a  wooded  bend, 
we  came  upon  a  man  with  a  smoking  gun,  a  boy  up 
to  his  middle  in  the  river,  trying  to  get  across,  and,  on 
the  other  side,  a  black  sheep  running  about  baaing 
at  every  jump. 

"  He  's  taken  the  lamb ;  he 's  taken  the  lamb  !  " 
shouted  the  boy.  Following  the  direction  of  his 
pointing  finger,  I  saw  Old  Whitehead,  a  splendid 
bird,  rising  heavily  above  the  tree-tops  across  the 
clearing.  Reaching  back  almost  instinctively,  I 
clutched  the  heavy  rifle  which  Gillie  put  into  my 
hand  and  jumped  out  of  the  canoe ;  for  with  a  rifle 
one  wants  steady  footing.  It  was  a  long  shot,  but  not 
so  very  difficult ;  Old  Whitehead  had  got  his  bearings 
and  was  moving  steadily,  straight  away.  A  second  after 
the  report  of  the  rifle,  we  saw  him  hitch  and  swerve 
in  the  air;  then  two  white  quills  came  floating  down, 
and  as  he  turned  we  saw  the  break  in  his  broad  white 
tail.  And  that  was  the  mark  that  we  knew  him  by 
ever  afterwards. 


Cloud  Wings  the  Eagle.  9 1 

That  was  nearly  eighty  miles  by  canoe  from  where 
we  now  stood,  though  scarcely  ten  in  a  straight  line 
over  the  mountains;  for  the  rivers  and  lakes  we  were 
following  doubled  back  almost  to  the  starting  point ; 
and  the  whole  wild,  splendid  country  was  the  eagle's 
hunting  ground.  Wherever  I  went  I  saw  him,  fol- 
lowing the  rivers  for  stranded  trout  and  salmon,  or 
floating  high  in  air  where  he  could  overlook  two  or 
three  wilderness  lakes,  with  as  many  honest  fish- 
hawks  catching  their  dinners.  I  had  promised  the 
curator  of  a  museum  that  I  would  get  him  an  eagle 
that  summer,  and  so  took  to  hunting  the  great  bird 
diligently.  But  hunting  was  of  little  use,  except  to 
teach  me  many  of  his  ways  and  habits ;  for  he  seemed 
to  have  eyes  and  ears  all  over  him;  and  whether  I 
crept  like  a  snake  through  the  woods,  or  floated  like 
a  wild  duck  in  my  canoe  over  the  water,  he  always 
saw  or  heard  me,  and  was  off  before  I  could  get 
within  shooting  distance. 

Then  I  tried  to  trap  him.  I  placed  two  large  trout, 
with  a  steel  trap  between  them,  in  a  shallow  spot  on 
the  river  that  I  could  watch  from  my  camp  on  a  bluff, 
half  a  mile  below.  Next  day  Gillie,  who  was  more 
eager  than  I,  set  up  a  shout ;  and  running  out  I  saw 
Old  Whitehead  standing  in  the  shallows  and  flopping 
about  the  trap.  We  jumped  into  a  canoe  and  pushed 


92  Wilderness  Ways. 

up  river  in  hot  haste,  singing  in  exultation  that  we 
had  the  fierce  old  bird  at  last.  When  we  doubled 
the  last  point  that  hid  the  shallows,  there  was  Old 
Whitehead,  still  tugging  away  at  a  fish,  and  splashing 
the  water  not  thirty  yards  away.  I  shall  not  soon 
forget  his  attitude  and  expression  as  we  shot  round 
the  point,  his  body  erect  and  rigid,  his  wings  half 
spread,  his  head  thrust  forward,  eyelids  drawn  straight, 
and  a  strong  fierce  gleam  of  freedom  and  utter  wild- 
ness  in  his  bright  eyes.  So  he  stood,  a  magnificent 
creature,  till  we  were  almost  upon  him,  —  when  he  rose 
quietly,  taking  one  of  the  trout.  The  other  was 
already  in  his  stomach.  He  was  not  in  the  trap  at 
all,  but  had  walked  carefully  round  it.  The  splashing 
was  made  in  tearing  one  fish  to  pieces  with  his  claws, 
and  freeing  the  other  from  a  stake  that  held  it. 

After  that  he  would  not  go  near  the  shallows ;  for 
a  new  experience  had  come  into  his  life,  leaving  its 
shadow  dark  behind  it.  He  who  was  king  of  all  he 
surveyed  from  the  old  blasted  pine  on  the  crag's  top, 
who  had  always  heretofore  been  the  hunter,  now 
knew  what  it  meant  to  be  hunted.  And  the  fear  of 
it  was  in  his  eyes,  I  think,  and  softened  their  fierce 
gleam  when  I  looked  into  them  again,  weeks  later, 
by  his  own  nest  on  the  mountain. 

Simmo  entered  also  into  our  hunting,  but  without 


Cloud  Wings  the  Ragle.  93 

enthusiasm  or  confidence.  He  had  chased  the  same 
eagle  before  —  all  one  summer,  in  fact,  when  a  sports- 
man, whom  he  was  guiding,  had  offered  him  twenty 
dollars  for  the  royal  bird's  skin.  But  Old  White- 
head  still  wore  it  triumphantly;  and  Simmo  proph- 
esied for  him  long  life  and  a  natural  death.  "  No 
use  hunt-um  dat  heagle,"  he  said  simply.  "  I  try 
once  an'  can't  get  near  him.  He  see  everyt'ing ;  and 
wot  he  don't  see,  he  hear.  'Sides,  he  kin  feel  danger. 
Das  why  he  build  nest  way  off,  long  ways,  O  don' 
know  where."  This  last  with  a  wave  of  his  arm  to 
include  the  universe.  Cheplahgan,  Old  Cloud  Wings, 
he  proudly  called  the  bird  that  had  defied  him  in  a 
summer's  hunting. 

At  first  I  had  hunted  him  like  any  other  savage ; 
partly,  of  course,  to  get  his  skin  for  the  curator; 
partly,  perhaps,  to  save  the  settler's  lambs  over  on  the 
Madawaska;  but  chiefly  just  to  kill  him,  to  exult  in 
his  death  flaps,  and  to  rid  the  woods  of  a  cruel  tyrant. 
Gradually,  however,  a  change  came  over  me  as  I 
hunted ;  I  sought  him  less  and  less  for  his  skin  and 
his  life,  and  more  and  more  for  himself,  to  know  all 
about  him.  I  used  to  watch  him  by  the  hour  from 
my  camp  on  the  big  lake,  sailing  quietly  over  Caribou 
Point,  after  he  had-  eaten  with  his  little  ones,  and 
was  disposed  to  let  Ismaquehs  go  on  with  his  fishing 


94  Wilderness  Ways. 

in  peace.  He  would  set  his  great  wings  to  the  breeze 
and  sit  like  a  kite  in  the  wind,  mounting  steadily  in 
an  immense  spiral,  up  and  up,  without  the  shadow 
of  effort,  till  the  eye  grew  dizzy  in  following.  And  I 
loved  to  watch  him,  so  strong,  so  free,  so  sure  of  him- 
self —  round  and  round,  up  and  ever  up,  without 
hurry,  without  exertion;  and  every  turn  found  the 
heavens  nearer  and  the  earth  spread  wider  below. 
Now  head  and  tail  gleam  silver  white  in  the  sun- 
shine; now  he  hangs  motionless,  a  cross  of  jet  that 
a  lady  might  wear  at  her  throat,  against  the  clear, 
unfathomable  blue  of  the  June  heavens  —  there!  he  is 
lost  in  the  blue,  so  high  that  I  cannot  see  any  more. 
But  even  as  I  turn  away  he  plunges  down  into  vision 
again,  dropping  with  folded  wings  straight  down  like 
a  plummet,  faster  and  faster,  larger  and  larger,  through 
a  terrifying  rush  of  air,  till  I  spring  to  my  feet  and 
catch  the  breath,  as  if  I  myself  were  falling.  And 
just  before  he  dashes  himself  to  pieces  he  turns  in 
the  air,  head  downward,  and  half  spreads  his  wings, 
and  goes  shooting,  slanting  down  towards  the  lake, 
then  up  in  a  great  curve  to  the  tree-tops,  where  he  can 
watch  better  what  Kakagos,  the  rare  woods-raven,  is 
doing,  and  what  game  he  is  hunting.  For  that  is 
what  Cheplahgan  came  down  in  such  a  hurry  to 
find  out  about. 


Cloud  Wings  the  Eagle.  95 

Again  he  would  come  in  the  early  morning,  sweeping- 
up  river  as  if  he  had  already  been  a  long  day's  journey, 
with  the  air  of  far-away  and  far-to-go  in  his  onward 
rush.  And  if  I  were  at  the  trout  pools,  and  very  still, 
I  would  hear  the  strong  silken  rustle  of  his  wings  as 
he  passed.  At  midday  I  would  see  him  poised  over 
the  highest  mountain-top  northward,  at  an  enormous 
altitude,  where  the  imagination  itself  could  not  follow 
the  splendid  sweep  of  his  vision;  and  at  evening  he 
would  cross  the  lake,  moving  westward  into  the  sunset 
on  tireless  pinions  —  always  strong,  noble,  magnificent 
in  his  power  and  loneliness,  a  perfect  emblem  of  the 
great  lonely  magnificent  wilderness. 

One  day  as  I  watched  him,  it  swept  over  me  sud- 
denly that  forest  and  river  would  be  incomplete  with- 
out him.  The  thought  of  this  came  back  to  me,  and 
spared  him  to  the  wilderness,  on  the  last  occasion 
when  I  went  hunting  for  his  life. 

That  was  just  after  we  reached  the  big  lake,  where 
I  saw  him  robbing  the  fish-hawk.  After  much  search- 
ing and  watching  I  found  a  great  log  by  the  outlet 
where  Old  Whitehead  often  perched.  There  was  a 
big  eddy  hard  by,  on  the  edge  of  a  shallow,  and  he  used 
to  sit  on  the  log,  waiting  for  fish  to  come  out  where 
he  could  wade  in  and  get  them.  There  was  a  sick- 
ness among  the  suckers  that  year  (it  comes  regularly 


96  Wilderness  Ways. 

every  few  years,  as  among  rabbits),  and  they  would 
come  struggling  out  of  the  deep  water  to  rest  on  the 
sand,  only  -  to  be  caught  by  the  minks  and  fish-hawks 
and  bears  and  Old  Whitehead,  all  of  whom  were 
waiting  and  hungry  for  fish. 

For  several  days  I  put  a  big  bait  of  trout  and  white- 
fish  on  the  edge  of  the  shallows.  The  first  two  baits 
were  put  out  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  a  bear  got 
them  both  the  next  night.  Then  I  put  them  out  in 
the  early  morning,  and  before  noon  Cheplahgan  had 
found  them.  He  came  straight  as  a  string  from  his 
watch  place  over  the  mountain,  miles  away,  causing 
me  to  wonder  greatly  what  strange  sixth  sense  guided 
him ;  for  sight  and  smell  seemed  equally  out  of  the 
question.  The  next  day  he  came  again.  Then  I 
placed  the  best  bait  of  all  in  the  shallows,  and  hid 
in  the  dense  underbrush  near,  with  my  gun. 

He  came  at  last,  after  hours  of  waiting,  dropping 
from  above  the  tree-tops  with  a  heavy  rustling  of 
pinions.  And  as  he  touched  the  old  log,  and  spread 
his  broad  white  tail,  I  saw  and  was  proud  of  the  gap 
which  my  bullet  had  made  weeks  before.  He  stood 
there  a  moment  erect  and  splendid,  head,  neck,  and 
tail  a  shining  white;  even  the  dark  brown  feathers 
of  his  body  glinted  in  the  bright  sunshine.  And  he 
turned  his  head  slowly  from  side  to  side,  his  keen 


Cloud  Wings  the  Ragle.  97 

eyes  flashing,  as  if  he  would  say,  "  Behold,  a  king ! "  to 
Chigwooltz  the  frog,  and  Tookhees  the  wood  mouse, 
and  to  any  other  chance  wild  creature  that  might 
watch  him  from  the  underbrush  at  his  unkingly  act 
of  feeding  on  dead  fish.  Then  he  hopped  down  — 
rather  awkwardly,  it  must  be  confessed;  for  he  is  a 
creature  of  the  upper  deeps,  who  cannot  bear  to  touch 
the  earth  —  seized  a  fish,  which  he  tore  to  pieces  with 
his  claws  and  ate  greedily.  Twice  I  tried  to  shoot 
him ;  but  the  thought  of  the  wilderness  without  him 
was  upon  me,  and  held  me  back.  Then,  too,  it  seemed 
so  mean  to  pot  him  from  ambush  when  he  had  come 
down  to  earth,  where  he  was  at  a  disadvantage ;  and 
when  he  clutched  some  of  the  larger  fish  in  his  talons, 
and  rose  swiftly  and  bore  away  westward,  all  desire  to 
kill  him  was  gone.  There  were  little  Cloud  Wings,  it 
seemed,  which  I  must  also  find  and  watch.  After 
that  I  hunted  him  more  diligently  than  before,  but 
without  my  gun.  And  a  curious  desire,  which  I 
could  not  account  for,  took  possession  of  me:  to 
touch  this  untamed,  untouched  creature  of  the  clouds 
and  mountains.  » 

Next  day  I  did  it.  There  were  thick  bushes  grow- 
ing along  one  end  of  the  old  log  on  which  the  eagle 
rested.  Into  these  I  cut  a  tunnel  with  my  hunting- 
knife,  arranging  the  tops  in  such  a  way  as  to  screen 


98  Wilderness  Ways. 

me  more  effectively.  Then  I  put  out  my  bait,  a 
good  two  hours  before  the  time  of  Old  Whitehead's 
earliest  appearance,  and  crawled  into  my  den  to  wait. 

I  had  barely  settled  comfortably  into  my  place, 
wondering  how  long  human  patience  could  endure 
the  sting  of  insects  and  the  hot  close  air  without 
moving  or  stirring  a  leaf,  when  the  heavy  silken  rustle 
sounded  close  at  hand,  and  I  heard  the  grip  of  his 
talons  on  the  log.  There  he  stood,  at  arm's  length, 
turning  his  head  uneasily,  the  light  glinting  on  his 
white  crest,  the  fierce,  untamed  flash  in  his  bright  eye. 
Never  before  had  he  seemed  so  big-,  so  strong,  so 
splendid;  my  heart  jumped  at  the  thought  of  him 
as  our  national  emblem.  I  am  glad  still  to  have  seen 
that  emblem  once,  and  felt  the  thrill  of  it. 

But  I  had  little  time  to  think,  for  Cheplahgan  was 
restless.  Some  instinct  seemed  to  warn  him  of  a 
danger  that  he  could  not  see.  The  moment  his  head 
was  turned  away,  I  stretched  out  my  arm.  Scarcely 
a  leaf  moved  with  the  motion,  yet  he  whirled  like  a 
flash  and  crouched  to  spring,  his  eyes  glaring  straight 
into  mine  with  an  intensity  that  I  could  scarce  endure. 
Perhaps  I  was  mistaken,  but  in  that  swift  instant  the 
hard  glare  in  his  eyes  seemed  to  soften  with  fear, 
as  he  recognized  me  as  the  one  thing  in  the  wilder- 
ness that  dared  to  hunt  him,  the  king.  My  hand 


Cloud  Wings  the  Eagle.  99 

touched  him  fair  on  the  shoulder;  then  he  shot  into 
the  air,  and  went  sweeping  in  great  circles  over  the 
tree-tops,  still  looking  down  at  the  man,  wondering 
and  fearing  at  the  way  in  which  he  had  been  brought 
into  the  man's  power. 

But  one  thing  he  did  not  understand.  Standing 
erect  on  the  log,  and  looking  up  at  him  as  he  swept 
over  me,  I  kept  thinking,  "  I  did  it,  I  did  it,  Cheplah- 
gan,  old  Cloud  Wings.  And  I  had  grabbed  your  legs, 
and  pinned  you  down,  and  tied  you  in  a  bag,  and 
brought  you  to  camp,  but  that  I  chose  to  let  you  go 
free.  And  that  is  better  than  shooting  you.  Now  I 
shall  find  your  little  ones  and  touch  them  too." 

For  several  days  I  had  been  watching  Old  White- 
head's  lines  of  flight,  and  had  concluded  that  his  nest 
was  somewhere  in  the  hills  northwest  of  the  big  lake. 
I  went  there  one  afternoon,  and  while  confused  in  the 
big  timber,  which  gave  no  outlook  in  any  direction, 
I  saw,  not  Old  Whitehead,  but  a  larger  eagle,  his 
mate  undoubtedly,  flying  straight  westward  with  food 
towards  a  great  cliff,  that  I  had  noticed  with  my  glass 
one  day  from  a  mountain  on  the  other  side  of  the  lake. 

When  I  went  there,  early  next  morning,  it  was 
Cheplahgan  himself  who  showed  me  where  his  nest 
was.  I  was  hunting  along  the  foot  of  the  cliff  when, 
glancing  back  towards  the  lake,  I  saw  him  coming 


ioo  Wilderness  Ways. 

far  away,  and  hid  in  the  underbrush.  He  passed  very 
near,  and  following,  I  saw  him  standing  on  a  ledge 
near  the  top  of  the  cliff.  Just  below  him,  in  the  top 
of  a  stunted  tree  growing  out  of  the  face  of  the  rock, 
was  a  huge  mass  of  sticks  that  formed  the  nest,  with 
a  great  mother-eagle  standing  by,  feeding  the  little 
ones.  Both  birds  started  away  silently  when  I  ap- 
peared, but  came  back  soon  and  swept  back  and  forth 
over  me,  as  I  sat  watching  the  nest  and  the  face  of 
the  cliff  through  my  glass.  No  need  now  of  caution. 
Both  birds  seemed  to  know  instinctively  why  I  had 
come,  and  that  the  fate  of  the  eaglets  lay  in  my  hands 
if  I  could  but  scale  the  cliff. 

It  was  scaring  business,  that  three-hundred-foot 
climb  up  the  sheer  face  of  the  mountain.  Fortu- 
nately the  rock  was  seamed  and  scarred  with  the 
wear  of  centuries ;  bushes  and  stunted  trees  grew 
out  of  countless  crevices,  which  gave  me  sure  foot- 
ing, and  sometimes  a  lift  of  a  dozen  feet  or  more  on 
my  way  up.  As  I  climbed,  the  eagles  circled  lower 
and  lower;  the  strong  rustling  of  their  wings  was 
about  my  head  continually;  they  seemed  to  grow 
larger,  fiercer,  every  moment,  as  my  hold  grew  more 
precarious,  and  the  earth  and  the  pointed  tree-tops 
dropped  farther  below.  There  was  a  good  revolver 
in  my  pocket,  to  use  in  case  of  necessity ;  but  had  the 


Cloud  Wings  the  Eagle.  101 

great  birds  attacked  me  I  should  have  fared  badly, 
for  at  times  I  was  obliged  to  grip  hard  with  both 
hands,  my  face  to  the  cliff,  leaving  the  eagles  free  to 
strike  from  above  and  behind.  I  think  now  that  had 
I  shown  fear  in  such  a  place,  or  shouted,  or  tried 
to  fray  them  away,  they  would  have  swooped  upon 
me,  wing  and  claw,  like  furies.  I  could  see  it  in 
their  fierce  eyes  as  I  looked  up.  But  the  thought  of 
the  times  when  I  had  hunted  him,  and  especially  the 
thought  of  that  time  when  I  had  reached  out  of  the 
bushes  and  touched  him,  was  upon  Old  Whitehead 
and  made  him  fear.  So  I  kept  steadily  on  my  way, 
apparently  giving  no  thought  to  the  eagles,  though 
deep  inside  I  was  anxious  enough,  and  reached  the 
foot  of  the  tree  in  which  the  nest  was  made. 

I  stood  there  a  long  time,  my  arm  clasping  the 
twisted  old  boll,  looking  out  over  the  forest  spread 
wide  below,  partly  to  regain  courage,  partly  to  re- 
assure the  eagles,  which  were  circling  very  near  with 
a  kind  of  intense  wonder  in  their  eyes,  but  chiefly 
to  make  up  my  mind  what  to  do  next.  The  tree 
was  easy  to  climb,  but  the  nest  —  a  huge  affair, 
which  had  been  added  to  year  after  year  —  filled  the 
whole  tree-top,  and  I  could  gain  no  foothold,  from 
which  to  look  over  and  see  the  eaglets,  without  tear- 
ing the  nest  to  pieces.  I  did  not  want  to  do  that, 


(^ 


102  Wilderness  Ways. 

and  I  doubted  whether  the  mother-eagle  would  stand 
it.  A  dozen  times  she  seemed  on  the  point  of  drop- 
ping on  my  head  to  tear  it  with  her  talons ;  but  always 
she  veered  off  as  I  looked  up  quietly,  and  Old  White- 
head,  with  the  mark  of  my  bullet  strong  upon  him, 
swept  between  her  and  me  and  seemed  to  say,  "  Wait, 
wait.  I  don't  understand;  but  he  can  kill  us  if  he 
will  —  and  the  little  ones  are  in  his  power."  Now  he 
was  closer  to  me  than  ever,  and  the  fear  was  vanishing. 
But  so  also  was  the  fierceness. 

From  the  foot  of  the  tree  the  crevice  in  which  it 
grew  led  upwards  to  the  right,  then  doubled  back  to 
the  ledge  above  the  nest,  upon  which  Cheplahgan 
was  standing  when  I  discovered  him.  The  lip  of 
this  crevice  made  a  dizzy  path  that  one  might  follow 
by  moving  crabwise,  his  face  to  the  cliff,  with  only 
its  roughnesses  to  cling  to  with  his  fingers.  I  tried 
it  at  last,  crept  up  and  out  twenty  feet,  and  back  ten, 
and  dropped  with  a  great  breath  of  relief  to  a  broad 
ledge  covered  with  bones  and  fish  scales,  the  relics 
of  many  a  savage  feast.  Below  me,  almost  within 
reach,  was  the  nest,  with  two  dark,  scraggly  young 
birds  resting  on  twigs  and  grass,  with  fish,  flesh  and 
fowl  in  a  gory,  skinny,  scaly  ring  about  them  —  the 
most  savage-looking  household  into  which  I  ever 
looked  unbidden. 


Cloud  Wings  the  Eagle.  103 

But  even  as  I  looked  and  wondered,  and  tried  to 
make  out  what  other  game  had  been  furnished  the 
young  savages  I  had  helped  to  feed,  a  strange  thing 
happened,  which  touched  me  as  few  things  ever  have 
among  the  wild  creatures.  The  eagles  had  followed 
me  close  along  the  last  edge  of  rock,  hoping  no  doubt 
in  their  wild  hearts  that  I  would  slip,  and  end  their 
troubles,  and  give  my  body  as  food  to  the  young. 
Now,  as  I  sat  on  the  ledge,  peering  eagerly  into  the 
nest,  the  great  mother-bird  left  me  and  hovered  over 
her  eaglets,  as  if  to  shield  them  with  her  wings  from 
even  the  sight  of  my  eyes.  But  Old  Whitehead  still 
circled  over  me.  Lower  he  came,  and  lower,  till  with 
a  supreme  effort  of  daring  he  folded  his  wings  and 
dropped  to  the  ledge  beside  me,  within  ten  feet,  and 
turned  and  looked  into  my  eyes.  "  See,"  he  seemed 
to  say,  "  we  are  within  reach  again.  You  touched  me 
once ;  I  don't  know  how  or  why.  Here  I  am  now,  to 
touch  or  to  kill,  as  you  will;  only  spare  the  little 
ones." 

A  moment  later  the  mother-bird  dropped  to  the 
edge  of  the  nest.  And  there  we  sat,  we  three,  with 
the  wonder  upon  us  all,  the  young  eagles  at  our  feet, 
the  cliff  above,  and,  three  hundred  feet  below,  the 
spruce  tops  of  the  wilderness  reaching  out  and  away 
to  the  mountains  bevond  the  big  lake. 


104  Wilderness  Ways. 

I  sat  perfectly  still,  which  is  the  only  way  to  reassure 
a  wild  creature ;  and  soon  I  thought  Cheplahgan  had 
lost  his  fear  in  his  anxiety  for  the  little  ones.  But  the 
moment  I  rose  to  go  he  was  in  the  air  again,  circling 
restlessly  above  my  head  with  his  mate,  the  same  wild 
fierceness  in  his  eyes  as  he  looked  down.  A  half-hour 
later  I  had  gained  the  top  of  the  cliff  and  started  east- 
ward towards  the  lake,  coming  down  by  a  much  easier 
way  than  that  by  which  I  went  up.  Later  I  returned 
several  times,  and  from  a  distance  watched  the  eaglets 
being  fed.  But  I  never  climbed  to  the  nest  again. 

One  day,  when  I  came  to  the  little  thicket  on  the 
cliff  where  I  used  to  lie  and  watch  the  nest  through 
my  glass,  I  found  that  one  eaglet  was  gone.  The 
other  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  nest,  looking  down 
fearfully  into  the  abyss,  whither,  no  doubt,  his  bolder 
nest  mate  had  flown,  and  calling  disconsolately  from 
time  to  time.  His  whole  attitude  showed  plainly  that 
he  was  hungry  and  cross  and  lonesome.  Presently 
the  mother-eagle  came  swiftly  up  from  the  valley,  and 
there  was  food  in  her  talons.  She  came  to  the  edge 
of  the  nest,  hovered  over  it  a  moment,  so  as  to  give 
the  hungry  eaglet  a  sight  and  smell  of  food,  then  went 
slowly  down  to  the  valley,  taking  the  food  with  her, 
telling  the  little  one  in  her  own  way  to  come  and  he 
should  have  it.  He  called  after  her  loudly  from  the 


Cloud  Wings  the  Eagle.  105 

edge  of  the  nest,  and  spread  his  wings  a  dozen  times 
to  follow.  But  the  plunge  was  too  awful ;  his  heart 
failed  him ;  and  he  settled  back  in  the  nest,  and  pulled 
his  head  down  into  his  shoulders,  and  shut  his  eyes, 
and  tried  to  forget  that  he  was  hungry.  The  mean- 
ing of  the  little  comedy  was  plain  enough.  She  was 
trying  to  teach  him  to  fly,  telling  him  that  his  wings 
were  grown  and  the  time  was  come  to  use  them ;  but 
he  was  afraid. 

In  a  little  while  she  came  back  again,  this  time  with- 
out food,  and  hovered  over  the  nest,  trying  every  way 
to  induce  the  little  one  to  leave  it.  She  succeeded  at 
last,  .when  with  a  desperate  effort  he  sprang  upward 
and  flapped  to  the  ledge  above,  where  I  had  sat  and 
watched  him  with  Old  Whitehead.  Then,  after  sur- 
veying the  world  gravely  from  his  new  place,  he 
flapped  back  to  the  nest,  and  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  all 
his  mother's  assurances  that  he  could  fly  just  as  easily 
to  the  tree-tops  below,  if  he  only  would. 

Suddenly,  as  if  discouraged,  she  rose  well  above 
him.  I  held  my  breath,  for  I  knew  what  was  coming. 
The  little  fellow  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  nest,  look- 
ing down  at  the  plunge  which  he  dared  not  take. 
There  was  a  sharp  cry  from  behind,  which  made  him 
alert,  tense  as  a  watch-spring.  The  next  instant  the 
mother-eagle  had  swooped,  striking  the  nest  at  his 


io6  Wilderness  Ways. 

feet,  sending  his  support  of  twigs  and  himself  with 
them  out  into  the  air  together. 

He  was  afloat  now,  afloat  on  the  blue  air  in  spite  of 
himself,  and  flapped  lustily  for  life.  Over  him,  under 
him,  beside  him  hovered  the  mother  on  tireless  wings, 
calling  softly  that  she  was  there.  But  the  awful  fear 
of  the  depths  and  the  lance  tops  of  the  spruces  was 
upon  the  little  one;  his  flapping  grew  more  wild;  he 
fell  faster  and  faster.  Suddenly  —  more  in  fright,  it 
seemed  to  me,  than  because  he  had  spent  his  strength 
—  he  lost  his  balance  and  tipped  head  downward  in 
the  air.  It  was  all  over  now,  it  seemed;  he  folded 
his  wings  to  be  dashed  in  pieces  among  the  trees. 
Then  like  a  flash  the  old  mother-eagle  shot  under 
him ;  his  despairing  feet  touched  her  broad  shoulders, 
between  her  wings.  He  righted  himself,  rested  an 
instant,  found  his  head ;  then  she  dropped  like  a 
shot  from  under  him,  leaving  him  to  come  down  on 
his  own  wings.  A  handful  of  feathers,  torn  out  by 
his  claws,  hovered  slowly  down  after  them. 

It  was  all  the  work  of  an  instant  before  I  lost  them 
among  the  trees  far  below.  And  when  I  found  them 
again  with  my  glass,  the  eaglet  was  in  the  top  of  a 
great  pine,  and  the  mother  was  feeding  him. 

And  then,  standing  there  alone  in  the  great  wilder- 
ness, it  flashed  upon  me  for  the  first  time  just  what 


Cloud  Wings  the  Eagle.  107 

the  wise  old  prophet  meant ;  though  he  wrote  long  ago, 
in  a  distant  land,  and  another  than  Cloud  Wings  had 
taught  her  little  ones,  all  unconscious  of  the  kindly 
eyes  that  watched  out  of  a  thicket :  "  As  the  eagle 
stirreth  up  her  nest,  fluttereth  over  her  young, 
spreadeth  abroad  her  wings,  taketh  them,  beareth 
them  on  her  wings,  —  so  the  Lord." 


VIL     UPWEEKIS    THE   SHADOW. 


ONG  'go,  O  long  time  'go,"  so  says  Simmo  the 
Indian,   Upweekis  the  lynx  came 
to  Clote   Scarpe  one  day  with  a 
complaint.     "See,"  he  said,  "you 
are   good    to   everybody   but   me. 
Pekquam    the    fisher    is    cunning 
and   patient;    he  can  catch    what 
he    will.      Lhoks    the    panther   is 
strong  and  tireless ;  nothing  can 
get   away   from   him,    not   even 
the   great    moose.      And    Moo- 
ween  the  bear  sleeps  all  winter,  when 
game  is  scarce,  and  in  summer   eats 
everything, — roots  and  mice  and  berries 
and  dead  fish  and  meat  and  honey  and 
red  ants.     So  he   is   always    full    and 
happy.      But   my  eyes  are   no  good ; 
they  are  bright,  like  Cheplahgan  the 
eagle's,  yet  they  cannot  see  anything 
unless  it  moves;   for  you  have  made 
every  creature  that  hides  just  like  the 

place  he  hides  in.     My  nose  is  worse ;  it  cannot  smell 

108 


Upweekis  the  Shadow.  109 

Seksagadagee  the  grouse,  though  I  walk  over  him 
asleep  in  the  snow.  And  my  feet  make  a  noise  in 
the  leaves,  so  that  Moktaques  the  rabbit  hears  me, 
and  hides,  and  laughs  behind  me  when  I  go  to  catch 
him.  And  I  am  always  hungry.  Make  me  now  like 
the  shadows  that  play,  in  order  that  nothing  may 
notice  me  when  I  go  hunting." 

So  Clote  Scarpe,  the  great  chief  who  was  kind  to 
all  animals,  gave  Upweekis  a  soft  gray  coat  that  is 
almost  invisible  in  the  woods,  summer  or  winter,  and 
made  his  feet  large,  and  padded  them  with  soft  fur; 
so  that  indeed  he  is  like  the  shadows  that  play,  for 
you  can  neither  see  nor  hear  him.  But  Clote  Scarpe 
remembered  Moktaques  the  rabbit  also,  and  gave  him 
two  coats,  a  brown  one  for  summer  and  a  white  one 
for  winter.  Consequently  he  is  harder  than  ever  to  see 
when  he  is  quiet;  and  Upweekis  must  still  depend 
upon  his  wits  to  catch  him.  As  Upweekis  has  few 
wits  to  spare,  Moktaques  often  sees  him  close  at  hand, 
and  chuckles  in  his  form  under  the  brown  ferns,  or 
sits  up  straight  under  the  snow-covered  hemlock  tips, 
and  watches  the  big  lynx  at  his  hunting. 


Sometimes,  on  a  winter  night,  when  you  camp  in 
the  wilderness,  and  the  snow  is  sifting  down  into  your 


1 10  Wilderness  Ways. 

fire,  and  the  woods  are  all  still,  a  fierce  screech  breaks 
suddenly  out  of  the  darkness  just  behind  your  wind- 
break of. boughs.  You  jump  to  your  feet  and  grab 
your  rifle ;  but  Simmo,  who  is  down  on  his  knees 
before  the  fire  frying  pork,  only  turns  his  head  to 
listen  a  moment,  and  says :  "  Upweekis  catch-um 
rabbit  dat  time."  Then  he  gets  closer  to  the  fire,  for 
the  screech  was  not  pleasant,  and  goes  on  with  his 
cooking. 

You  are  more  curious  than  he,  or  you  want  the  big 
cat's  skin  to  take  home  with  you.  You  steal  away 
towards  the  cry,  past  the  little  commovsie,  or  shelter, 
that  you  made  hastily  at  sundown  when  the  trail 
ended.  There,  with  your  back  to  the  fire  and  the 
commoosie  between,  the  light  does  not  dazzle  your 
eyes ;  you  can  trace  the  shadows  creeping  in  and  out 
stealthily  among  the  underbrush.  But  if  Upweekis 
is  there  —  and  he  probably  is  —  you  do  not  see  him. 
He  is  a  shadow  among  the  shadows.  Only  there  is 
this  difference :  shadows  move  no  bushes.  As  you 
watch,  a  fir-tip  stirs ;  a  bit  of  snow  drops  down.  You 
gaze  intently  at  the  spot.  Then  out  of  the  deep 
shadow  two  living  coals  are  suddenly  kindled.  They 
grow  larger  and  larger,  glowing,  flashing,  burning 
holes  into  your  eyes  till  you  brush  them  swiftly  with 
your  hand.  A  shiver  runs  over  you,  for  to  look  into 


Upweekis  the  Shadow. 


1 1 1 


the  eyes  of  a  lynx  at  night,  when  the  light  catches 
them,  is  a  scary  experience.  Your  rifle  jumps  to  posi- 
tion ;  the  glowing  coals  are  quenched  on  the  instant. 
Then,  when  your  eyes  have  blinked  the  fascination 
out  of  them,  the  shadows  go  creeping  in  and  out 
again,  and  Upweekis  is  lost  amongst  them. 

Sometimes,  indeed,  you  see  him  again.  Moktaques, 
the  big  white  hare,  who  forgets  a  thing  the  moment  it 
is  past,  sees  you  standing  there  and  is  full  of  curiosity. 
He  forgets  that  he  was  being  hunted  a  moment  ago, 
and  comes  hopping  along  to  see  what  you  are.  You 
back  away  toward  the  fire.  He  scampers  off  in  a 
fright,  but  presently  comes  hopping  after  you.  Watch 
the  underbrush  behind  him  sharply.  In  a  moment  it 
stirs  stealthily,  as  if  a  shadow  were  moving  it;  and 
there  is  the  lynx,  stealing  along  in  the  snow  with  his 
eyes  blazing.  Again  Moktaques  feels  that  he  is 
hunted,  and  does  the  only  safe  thing;  he  crouches  low 
in  the  snow,  where  a  fir-tip  bends  over  him,  and  is  still 
as  the  earth.  His  color  hides  him  perfectly. 

Upweekis  has  lost  the  trail  again;  he  wavers  back 
and  forth,  like  a  shadow  under  a  swinging  lamp,  turning 
his  great  head  from  side  to  side.  He  cannot  see  nor 
hear  nor  smell  his  game ;  but  he  saw  a  bit  of  snow  fly 
a  moment  ago,  and  knows  that  it  came  from  Moktaques' 
big  pads.  Don't  stir  now;  be  still  as  the  great  spruce 


1 1 2  Wilderness  Ways. 

in  whose  shadow  you  stand;  and,  once  in  a  hunter's 
lifetime  perhaps,  you  will  see  a  curious  tragedy. 

The  lynx  settles  himself  in  the  snow,  with  all  four 
feet  close  together,  ready  for  a  spring.  As  you  watch 
and  wonder,  a  screech  rings  out  through  the  woods,  so 
sharp  and  fierce  that  no  rabbit's  nerves  can  stand  it 
close  at  hand  and  be  still.  Moktaques  jumps  straight 
up  in  the  air.  The  lynx  sees  it,  whirls,  hurls  himself 
at  the  spot.  Another  screech,  a  different  one,  and  then 
you  know  that  it 's  all  over. 

And  that  is  why  Upweekis'  cry  is  so  fierce  and 
sudden  on  a  winter  night.  Your  fire  attracts  the  rab- 
bits. Upweekis  knows  this,  or  is  perhaps  attracted 
himself  and  comes  also,  and  hides  among  the  shadows. 
But  he  never  catches  anything  unless  he  blunders  onto 
it.  That  is  why  he  wanders  so  much  in  winter  and 
passes  twenty  rabbits  before  he  catches  one.  So  when 
he  knows  that  Moktaques  is  near,  watching  the  light, 
but  remaining  himself  invisible,  Upweekis  crouches 
for  a  spring ;  then  he  screeches  fearfully.  Moktaques 
hears  it  and  is  startled,  as  anybody  else  would  be,  hear- 
ing such  a  cry  near  him.  He  jumps  in  a  fright  and 
pays  the  penalty. 

If  the  lynx  is  a  big  one,  and  very  hungry,  as  he  gen- 
erally is  in  winter,  you  may  get  some  unpleasant 
impressions  of  him  in  another  way  when  you  venture 


Upwttkis  the  Shadow.  1 1 3 

far  from  your  fire.  His  eyes  blaze  out  at  you  from  the 
darkness,  just  two  big  glowing  spots,  which  are  all  you 
see,  and  which  disappear  at  your  first  motion.  Then 
as  you  strain  your  eyes,  and  watch  and  listen,  you  feel 
the  coals  upon  you  again  from  another  place;  and 
there  they  are,  under  a  bush  on  your  left,  creeping 
closer  and  blazing  deep  red.  They  disappear  suddenly 
as  the  lynx  turns  his  head,  only  to  reappear  and  fasci- 
nate you  from  another  point.  So  he  plays  with  you 
as  if  you  were  a  great  mouse,  creeping  closer  all  the 
time,  swishing  his  stub  tail  fiercely  to  lash  himself  up 
to  the  courage  point  of  springing.  But  his  movements 
are  so  still  and  shadowy  that  unless  he  follows  you  as 
you  back  away  to  the  fire,  and  so  comes  within  the 
circle  of  light,  the  chances  are  that  you  will  never 
see  him. 

Indeed  the  chances  are  always  that  way,  day  or 
night,  unless  you  turn  hunter  and  set  a  trap  for  him  in 
the  rabbit  paths  which  he  follows  nightly,  and  hang  a 
bait  over  it  to  make  him  look  up  and  forget  his  steps. 
In  summer  he  goes  to  the  burned  lands  for  the  rabbits 
that  swarm  in  the  thickets,  and  to  rear  his  young  in 
seclusion.  You  find  his  tracks  there  all  about,  and  the 
marks  of  his  killing  ;  but  though  you  watch  and  prowl 
all  day  and  come  home  in  the  twilight,  you  will  learn 
little.  He  hears  you  and  skulks  away  amid  the  lights 


1 1 4  Wilderness  Ways. 

and  shadows  of  the  hillside,  and  so  hides  himself  —  in 
plain  sight,  sometimes,  like  a  young  partridge  —  that 
he  manages  to  keep  a  clean  record  in  the  notebook 
where  you  hoped  to  write  down  all  about  him. 

In  winter  you  cross  his  tracks,  great  round  tracks 
that  wander  everywhere  through  the  big  woods,  and 
you  think :  Now  1  shall  find  him  surely.  But  though 
you  follow  for  miles  and  learn  much  about  him,  finding 
where  he  passed  this  rabbit  close  at  hand,  without 
suspecting  it,  and  caught  that  one  by  accident,  and 
missed  the  partridge  that  burst  out  of  the  snow  under 
his  very  feet, —  still  Upweekis  himself  remains  only  a 
shadow  of  the  woods.  Once,  after  a  glorious  long  tramp 
on  his  trail,  I  found  the  spot  where  he  had  been  sleep- 
ing a  moment  before.  But  beside  that  experience  I 
must  put  fifty  other  trails  that  I  have  followed,  of 
which  I  never  saw  the  end  nor  the  beginning.  And 
whenever  I  have  found  out  anything  about  Upweekis 
it  has  generally  come  unexpectedly,  as  most  good 
things  do. 

Once  the  chance  came  as  I  was  watching  a  muskrat 
at  his  supper.  It  was  twilight  in  the  woods.  I  had 
drifted  in  close  to  shore  in  my  canoe  to  see  what 
Musquash  was  doing  on  top  of  a  rock.  All  muskrats 
have  favorite  eating  places  —  a  rock,  a  stranded  log,  a 
tree  boll  that  leans  out  over  the  water,  and  always  a 


Upweekis  the  Shadow.  115 

pretty  spot  —  whither  they  bring  food  from  a  distance, 
evidently  for  the  purpose  of  eating  it  where  they  feel 
most  at  home.  This  one  had  gathered  a  half  dozen 
big  fresh-water  clams  onto  his  dining  table,  and  sat 
down  in  the  midst  to  enjoy  the  feast.  He  would  take 
a  clam  in  his  fore  paws,  whack  it  a  few  times  on  the 
rock  till  the  shell  cracked,  then  open  it  with  his  teeth 
and  devour  the  morsel  inside.  He  ate  leisurely,  tasting 
each  clam  critically  before  swallowing,  and  sitting  up 
often  to  wash  his  whiskers  or  to  look  out  over  the 
lake.  A  hermit  thrush  sang  marvelously  sweet  above 
him ;  the  twilight  colors  glowed  deep  and  deeper  in  the 
water  below,  where  his  shadow  was  clearly  eating  clams 
also,  in  the  midst  of  heaven's  splendor.  —  Altogether  a 
pretty  scene,  and  a  moment  of  peace  that  I  still  love 
to  remember.  I  quite  forgot  that  Musquash  is  a 
villain.  But  the  tragedy  was  near,  as  it  always  is  in 
the  wilderness.  Suddenly  a  movement  caught  my  eye 
on  the  bank  above.  Something  was  waving  nervously 
under  the  bushes.  Before  I  could  make  out  what  it 
was,  there  was  a  fearful  rush,  a  gleam  of  wild  yellow 
eyes,  a  squeak  from  the  muskrat.  Then  Upweekis, 
looking  gaunt  and  dark  and  strange  in  his  summer 
coat,  was  crouched  on  the  rock  with  Musquash 
between  his  great  paws,  growling  fiercely  as  he 
cracked  the  bones.  He  bit  his  game  all  over,  to  make 


n6  Wilderness  Ways. 

sure  that  it  was  quite  dead,  then  took  it  by  the  back 
of  the  neck,  glided  into  the  bushes  with  his  stub  tail 
twitching,  and  became  a  shadow  again. 

Another  time  I  was  perched  up  in  a  lodged  tree, 
some  twenty  feet  from  the  ground,  watching  a  big  bait 
of  fish  which  I  had  put  in  an  open  spot  for  anything 
that  might  choose  to  come  and  get  it.  I  was  hoping 
for  a  bear,  and  so  climbed  above  the  ground  that  he 
might  not  get  my  scent  should  he  come  from  leeward. 
It  was  early  autumn,  and  my  intentions  were  wholly 
peaceable.  I  had  no  weapon  of  any  kind. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  something  took  to  chasing  a 
red  squirrel  near  me.  I  heard  them  scurrying  through 
the  trees,  but  could  see  nothing.  The  chase  passed 
out  of  hearing,  and  I  had  almost  forgotten  it,  for  some- 
thing was  moving  in  the  underbrush  near  my  bait, 
when  back  it  came  with  a  rush.  The  squirrel,  half 
dead  with  fright,  leaped  from  a  spruce-tip  to  the  ground, 
jumped  onto  the  tree  in  which  I  sat,  and  raced  up  the 
incline,  almost  to  my  feet,  where  he  sprang  to  a  branch 
and  sat  chattering  hysterically  between  two  fears. 
After  him  came  a  pine  marten,  following  swiftly,  catch- 
ing the  scent  of  his  game,  not  from  the  bark  or  the 
ground,  but  apparently  from  the  air.  Scarcely  had  he 
jumped  upon  my  tree  when  there  was  a  screech  and  a 
rush  in  the  underbrush  just  below  him,  and  out  of  the 


Upweekis  the  Shadow.  1 1 7 

bushes  came  a  young  lynx  to  join  in  the  chase.  He 
missed  the  marten  on  the  ground,  but  sprang  to  my 
tree  like  a  flash.  I  remember  still  that  the  only  sound 
I  was  conscious  of  at  the  time  was  the  ripping  of  his 
nails  in  the  dead  bark.  He  had  been  seeking  my  bait 
undoubtedly  —  for  it  was  a  good  lynx  country,  and 
Upweekis  loves  fish  like  a  cat  —  when  the  chase  passed 
under  his  nose  and  he  joined  it  on  the  instant. 

Halfway  up  the  incline  the  marten  smelled  me,  or 
was  terrified  by  the  noise  behind  him  and  leaped  aside. 
A  branch  upon  which  I  was  leaning  swayed  or 
snapped,  and  the  lucivee  stopped  as  if  struck,  crouch- 
ing lower  and  lower  against  the  tree,  his  big  yellow 
expressionless  eyes  glaring  straight  into  mine.  A 
moment  only  he  stood  the  steady  look ;  then  his  eyes 
wavered ;  he  turned  his  head,  leaped  for  the  under- 
brush, and  was  gone. 

Another  moment  and  Meeko  the  squirrel  had  for- 
gotten his  fright  and  peril  and  everything  else  save  his 
curiosity  to  find  out  who  I  was  and  all  about  me.  He 
had  to  pass  quite  close  to  me  to  get  to  another  tree, 
but  anything  was  better  than  going  back  where  the 
marten  might  be  waiting;  so  he  was  presently  over 
my  head,  snickering  and  barking  to  make  me  move, 
and  scolding  me  soundly  for  disturbing  the  peace  of 
the  woods. 


n8  Wilderness  Ways. 

In  summer  Upweekis  is  a  solitary  creature,  rearing 
his  young  away  back  on  the  wildest  burned  lands, 
where  game  is  plenty  and  where  it  is  almost  impossible 
to  find  him  except  by  accident.  In  winter  also  he 
roams  alone  for  the  most  part ;  but  occasionally,  when 
rabbits  are  scarce,  as  they  are  periodically  in  the  north- 
ern woods,  he  gathers  in  small  bands  for  the  purpose 
of  pulling  down  big  game  that  he  would  never  attack 
singly.  Generally  Upweekis  is  skulking  and  cowardly 
with  man;  but  when  driven  by  hunger  (as  I  found  out 
once)  or  when  hunting  in  bands,  he  is  a  savage  beast 
and  must  be  followed  cautiously. 

I  had  heard  much  of  the  fierceness  of  these  hunting 
bands  from  settlers  and  hunters;  and  once  a  friend 
of  mine,  an  old  backwoodsman,  had  a  narrow  escape 
from  them.  He  had  a  dog,  Grip,  a  big  brindled  cur, 
of  whose  prowess  in  killing  "  varmints  "  he  was  always 
bragging,  calling  him  the  best  "lucififer"  dog  in  all 
Canada.  Lucififer,  by  the  way,  is  a  local  name  for 
the  lynx  on  the  upper  St.  John,  where  Grip  and  his 
master  lived. 

One  day  in  winter  the  master  missed  a  young  heifer 
and  went  on  his  trail,  with  Grip  and  his  axe  for  com- 
panions. Presently  he  came  to  lynx  tracks,  then  to 
signs  of  a  struggle,  then  plump  upon  six  or  seven  of 
the  big  cats  snarling  savagely  over  the  body  of  the 


Upweekis  the  Shadow.  1 1 9 

heifer.  Grip,  the  lucififer  dog,  rushed  in  blindly,  and 
in  two  minutes  was  torn  to  ribbons.  Then  the  lynxes 
came  creeping  and  snarling  towards  the  man,  who 
backed  away,  shouting  and  swinging  his  axe.  He  killed 
one  by  a  lucky  blow,  as  it  sprang  for  his  chest.  The 
others  drove  him  to  his  own  door ;  but  he  would  never 
have  reached  it,  so  he  told  me,  but  for  a  long  strip  of 
open  land  that  he  had  cleared  back  into  the  woods. 
He  would  face  and  charge  the  beasts,  which  seemed 
more  afraid  of  his  voice  than  of  the  axe,  then  run  des- 
perately to  keep  them  from  circling  and  getting 
between  him  and  safety.  When  he  reached  the  open 
strip  they  followed  a  little  way  along  the  edges  of  the 
underbrush,  but  returned  one  at  a  time  when  they 
were  sure  he  had  no  further  mind  to  disturb  their 
feast  or  their  fighting. 

It  is  curious  that  when  Upweekis  and  his  hunting 
pack  pull  down  game  in  this  way  the  first  thing  they 
do  is  to  fight  over  it.  There  may  be  meat  enough  and 
to  spare,  but  under  their  fearful  hunger  is  the  old 
beastly  instinct  for  each  one  to  grab  all  for  himself;  so 
they  fall  promptly  to  teeth  and  claws  before  the  game 
is  dead.  The  fightings  at  such  times  are  savage 
affairs,  both  to  the  eye  and  ear.  One  forgets  that 
Upweekis  is  a  shadow,  and  thinks  that  he  must  be 
a  fiend. 


i2o  Wilderness  Ways. 

One  day  in  winter,  when  after  caribou,  I  came  upon 
a  very  large  lynx  track,  the  largest  I  have  ever  seen. 
It  was  two  days  old;  but  it  led  in  my  direction,  toward 
the  caribou  barrens,  and  I  followed  it  to  see  what  I 
should  see. 

Presently  it  joined  four  other  lynx  trails,  and  a  mile 
farther  on  all  five  trails  went  forward  in  great  flying 
leaps,  each  lynx  leaving  a  hole  in  the  snow  as  big  as  a 
bucket  at  every  jump.  A  hundred  yards  of  this  kind 
of  traveling  and  the  trails  joined  another  trail,  —  that 
of  a  wounded  caribou  from  the  barrens.  His  tracks 
showed  that  he  had  been  traveling  with  difficulty  on 
three  legs.  Here  was  a  place  where  he  had  stood 
to  listen ;  and  there  was  another  place  where  even 
untrained  eyes  might  see  that  he  had  plunged  forward 
with  a  start  of  fear.  It  was  a  silent  story,  but  full  of 
eager  interest  in  every  detail. 

The  lucivee  tracks  now  showed  different  tactics. 
They  crossed  and  crisscrossed  the  trail,  appearing  now 
in  front,  now  behind,  now  on  either  side  the  wounded 
bull,  evidently  closing  in  upon  him  warily.  Here  and 
there  was  a  depression  in  the  snow  where  one  had 
crouched,  growling,  as  the  game  passed.  Then  the 
struggle  began.  First,  there  was  a  trampled  place  in 
the  snow  where  the  bull  had  taken  a  stand  and  the  big 
cats  went  creeping  about  him,  waiting  for  a  chance  to 


The  stripped  carcass  of  the  caribou  with  two  lynxes  still  upon  it 


Upweekis  the  Shadow.  121 

spring  all  together.  He  broke  away  from  that,  but  the 
three-legged  gallop  speedily  exhausted  him.  Only 
when  he  trots  is  a  caribou  tireless.  The  lynxes  fol- 
lowed; the  deadly  cat-play  began  again.  First  one, 
then  another  leaped,  only  to  be  shaken  off ;  then  two, 
then  all  five  were  upon  the  poor  brute,  which  still 
struggled  forward.  The  record  was  written  red  all 

OO 

over  the  snow. 

As  I  followed  it  cautiously,  a  snarl  sounded  just 
ahead.  I  kicked  off  my  snowshoes  and  circled  noise- 
lessly to  the  left,  so  as  to  look  out  over  a  little  opening. 
There  lay  the  stripped  carcass  of  the  caribou  with  two 
lynxes  still  upon  it,  growling  fearfully  at  each  other  as 
they  pulled  at  the  bones.  Another  lynx  crouched  in 
the  snow,  under  a  bush,  watching  the  scene.  Two 
others  circled  about  each  other  snarling,  looking  for 
an  opening,  but  too  well  fed  to  care  for  a  fight  just 
then.  Two  or  three  foxes,  a  pine  marten,  and  a  fisher 
moved  ceaselessly  in  and  out,  sniffing  hungrily,  and 
waiting  for  a  chance  to  seize  every  scrap  of  bone  or 
skin  that  was  left  unguarded  for  an  instant.  Above 
them  a  dozen  moose  birds  kept  the  same  watch 
vigilantly.  As  I  stole  nearer,  hoping  to  get  behind  an 
old  log  where  I  could  lie  and  watch  the  spectacle, 
some  creature  scurried  out  of  the  underbrush  at  one 
side.  I  was  watching  the  movement,  when  a  loud 


122  Wilderness  Ways. 

kee-yaaah  !  startled  me ;  I  whirled  towards  the  open- 
ing. From  behind  the  old  log  a  fierce  round  head 
with  tasseled  ears  rose  up,  and  the  big  lynx,  whose 
trail  I  had  first  followed,  sprang  into  sight  snarling 
and  spitting  viciously. 

The  feast  stopped  at  the  first  alarm.  The  marten 
disappeared  instantly.  The  foxes  and  the  fisher  and 
one  lynx  slunk  away.  Another,  which  I  had  not  seen, 
stalked  up  to  the  carcass  and  put  his  fore  paws  upon  it, 
and  turned  his  savage  head  in  my  direction.  Evidently 
other  lynxes  had  come  in  to  the  kill  beside  the  five  I 
had  followed.  Then  all  the  big  cats  crouched  in  the 
snow  and  stared  at  me  steadily  out  of  their  wild  yellow 
eyes. 

It  was  only  for  a  moment.  The  big  lynx  on  my 
side  of  the  log  was  in  a  fighting  temper;  he  snarled 
continuously.  Another  sprang  over  the  log  and 
crouched  beside  him,  facing  me.  Then  began  a  curi- 
ous scene,  of  which  I  could  not  wait  to  see  the  end. 
The  two  lynxes  hitched  nearer  and  nearer  to  where  I 
stood  motionless,  watching.  They  would  creep  forward 
a  step  or  two,  then  crouch  in  the  snow,  like  a  cat 
warming  her  feet,  and  stare  at  me  unblinkingly  for 
a  few  moments.  Then  another  hitch  or  two,  which 
brought  them  nearer,  and  another  stare.  I  could  not 
look  at  one  steadily,  to  make  him  waver;  for  the 


Upweeh's  the  Shadow.  123 

moment  my  eyes  were  upon  him  the  others  hitched 
closer ;  and  already  two  more  lynxes  were  coming  over 
the  log.  I  had  to  draw  the  curtain  hastily  with  a 
bullet  between  the  yellow  eyes  of  the  biggest  lynx, 
and  a  second  straight  into  the  chest  of  his  fellow- 
starer,  just  as  he  wriggled  down  into  the  snow  for  a 
spring.  The  others  had  leaped  away  snarling  as  the 
first  heavy  report  rolled  through  the  woods. 

Another  time,  in  the  same  region,  a  solitary  lynx 
made  me  uncomfortable  for  half  an  afternoon.  It  was 
Sunday,  and  I  had  gone  for  a  snowshoe  tramp,  leaving 
my  rifle  behind  me.  On  the  way  back  to  camp  I 
stopped  for  a  caribou  head  and  skin,  which  I  had 
cached  on  the  edge  of  a  barren  the  morning  before. 
The  weather  had  changed ;  a  bitter  cold  wind  blew 
after  me  as  I  turned  toward  camp.  I  carried  the  head 
with  its  branching  antlers  on  my  shoulder ;  the  skin 
hung  down,  to  keep  my  back  warm,  its  edges  trailing 
in  the  snow. 

Gradually  I  became  convinced  that  something  was 
following  me ;  but  I  turned  several  times  without 
seeing  anything.  "  It  is  only  a  fisher,"  I  thought,  and 
kept  on  steadily,  instead  of  going  back  to  examine  my 
trail ;  for  I  was  hoping  for  a  glimpse  of  the  cunning 
creature  whose  trail  you  find  so  often  running  side  by 
side  with  your  own,  and  who  follows  you,  if  you  have 


124  Wilderness  Ways. 

any  trace  of  game  about  you,  hour  after  hour  through 
the  wilderness,  without  ever  showing  himself  in  the 
light.  Then  I  whirled  suddenly,  obeying  an  impulse ; 
and  there  was  Upweekis,  a  big,  savage-looking  fellow, 
just  gliding  up  on  my  trail  in  plain  sight,  following 
the  broad  snowshoe  track  and  the  scent  of  the  fresh 
caribou  skin  without  difficulty,  poor  trailer  though 
he  be. 

He  stopped  and  sat  down  on  his  feet,  as  a  lucivee 
generally  does  when  you  surprise  him,  and  stared  at 
me  steadily.  When  I  went  on  again  I  knew  that  he 
was  after  me,  though  he  had  disappeared  from  the  trail. 

Then  began  a  double-quick  of  four  miles,  the  object 
being  to  reach  camp  before  night  should  fall  and  give 
the  lucivee  the  advantage.  It  was  already  late  enough 
to  make  one  a  bit  uneasy.  He  knew  that  I  was  hur- 
rying ;  he  grew  bolder,  showing  himself  openly  on 
the  trail  behind  me.  I  turned  into  an  old  swamping 
road,  which  gave  me  a  bit  of  open  before  and  behind. 
Then  I  saw  him  occasionally  on  either  side,  or  crouch- 
ing half  hid  until  I  passed.  Clearly  he  was  waiting 
for  night;  but  to  this  day  I  am  not  sure  whether  it 
was  the  man  or  the  caribou  skin  upon  which  he  had 
set  his  heart.  The  scent  of  flesh  and  blood  was  in  his 
nose,  and  he  was  too  hungry  to  control  himself  much 
longer. 


Upweekis  the  Shadow.  125 

I  cut  a  good  club  with  my  big  jack-knife,  and,  watch- 
ing my  chance,  threw  off  the  caribou  head  and  jumped 
for  him  as  he  crouched  in  the  snow.  He  leaped  aside 
untouched,  but  crouched  again  instantly,  showing  all 
his  teeth,  snarling  horribly.  Three  times  I  swung  at 
him  warily.  Each  time  he  jumped  aside  and  watched 
for  his  opening ;  but  I  kept  the  club  in  play  before  his 
eyes,  and  it  was  not  yet  dark  enough.  Then  I  yelled 
in  his  face,  to  teach  him  fear,  and  went  on  again. 

Near  camp  I  shouted  for  Simmo  to  bring  my  rifle ; 
but  he  was  slow  in  understanding,  and  his  answering 
shout  alarmed  the  savage  creature  near  me.  His 
movements  became  instantly  more  wary,  more  hidden. 
He  left  the  open  trail ;  and  once,  when  I  saw  him  well 
behind  me,  his  head  was  raised  high,  listening.  I  threw 
down  the  caribou  head  to  keep  him  busy,  and  ran  for 
camp.  In  a  few  minutes  I  was  stealing  back  again 
with  my  rifle;  but  Upweekis  had  felt  the  change  in 
the  situation  and  was  again  among  the  shadows,  where 
he  belongs.  I  lost  his  trail  in  the  darkening  woods. 

There  was  another  lynx  which  showed  me,  one  day, 
a  different  side  to  Upweekis'  nature.  It  was  in  sum- 
mer, when  every  creature  in  the  wilderness  seems  an 
altogether  different  creature  from  the  one  you  knew  last 
winter,  with  new  habits,  new  duties,  new  pleasures,  and 
even  a  new  coat  to  hide  him  better  from  his  enemies. 


126  Wilderness  Ways. 

Opposite  my  island  camp,  where  I  halted  a  little 
while  in  a  summer's  roving,  was  a  burned  ridge ;  that 
is,  it  ha.d  been  burned  over  years  before ;  now  it 
was  a  perfect  tangle,  with  many  an  open  sunny  spot, 
however,  where  berries  grew  by  handfuls.  Rabbits 
swarmed  there,  and  grouse  were  plenty.  As  it  was 
forty  miles  back  from  the  settlements,  it  seemed  a  per- 
fect place  for  Upweekis  to  make  a  den  in.  And  so  it 
was.  I  have  no  doubt  there  were  a  dozen  litters  of 
kittens  on  that  two  miles  of  ridge ;  but  the  cover  was 
so  dense  that  nothing  smaller  than  a  deer  could  be 
seen  moving. 

For  two  weeks  I  hunted  the  ridge  whenever  I  was 
not  fishing,  stealing  in  and  out  among  the  thickets, 
depending  more  upon  ears  than  eyes,  but  seeing  noth- 
ing of  Upweekis,  save  here  and  there  a  trampled  fern, 
or  a  blood-splashed  leaf,  with  a  bit  of  rabbit  fur,  or  a 
great  round  cat  track,  to  tell  the  story.  Once  I  came 
upon  a  bear  and  two  cubs  among  the  berries;  and 
once,  when  the  wind  was  blowing  down  the  hill,  I 
walked  almost  up  to  a  bull  caribou  without  seeing  him. 
He  was  watching  my  approach  curiously,  only  his 
eyes,  ears,  and  horns  showing  above  the  tangle  where 
he  stood.  Down  in  the  coverts  it  was  always  intensely 
still,  with  a  stillness  that  I  took  good  care  not  to 
break.  So  when  the  great  brute  whirled  with  a  snort 


Upweqkis  the  Shadow.  127 

and  a  tremendous  crash  of  bushes,  almost  under  my 
nose,  it  raised  my  hair  for  a  moment,  not  knowing 
what  the  creature  was,  nor  which  way  he  was  heading. 
But  though  every  day  brought  its  experience,  and  its 
knowledge,  and  its  new  wonder  at  the  ways  of  wild 
things,  I  found  no  trace  of  the  den,  nor  of  the  kittens 
I  had  hoped  to  watch.  All  animals  are  silent  near 
their  little  ones,  so  there  was  never  a  cry  by  night  or 
day  to  guide  me. 

Late  one  afternoon,  when  I  had  climbed  to  the  top 
of  the  ridge  and  was  on  my  way  back  to  camp,  I  ran 
into  an  odor,  the  strong,  disagreeable  odor  that  always 
hovers  about  the  den  of  a  carnivorous  animal.  I 
followed  it  through  a  thicket,  and  came  to  an  open 
stony  place,  with  a  sharp  drop  of  five  or  six  feet  to 
dense  cover  below.  The  odor  came  from  this  cover, 
so  I  jumped  down  ;  when  — yeow,  karrrr,  pft-pft  / 
Almost  under  my  feet  a  gray  thing  leaped  away  snarl- 
ing, followed  by  another.  I  had  the  merest  glimpse  of 
them;  but  from  the  way  they  bristled  and  spit  and 
arched  their  backs,  I  knew  that  I  had  stumbled  upon 
a  pair  of  the  lynx  kittens,  for  which  I  had  searched  so 
long  in  vain. 

They  had,  probably,  been  lying  out  on  the  warm 
stones,  until,  hearing  strange  footsteps,  they  had  glided 
away  to  cover.  When  I  crashed  down  near  them 


128  Wilderness  Ways. 

they  had  been  scared  into  showing  their  temper;  else 
I  had  never  seen  them  in  the  underbrush.  Fortu- 
nately for  me,  the  fierce  old  mother  was  away.  Had 
she  been  there,  I  should  undoubtedly  have  had  more 
serious  business  on  hand  than  watching  her  kittens. 

They  had  not  seen  more  of  me  than  my  shoes  and 
stockings ;  so  when  I  stole  after  them,  to  see  what  they 
were  like,  they  were  waiting  under  a  bush  to  see  what 
I  was  like.  They  jumped  away  again,  spitting,  without 
seeing  me,  alarmed  by  the  rustle  which  I  could  not 
avoid  making  in  the  cover.  So  I  followed  them,  just 
a  quiver  of  leaves  here,  a  snarl  there,  and  then  a  rush 
away,  until  they  doubled  back  towards  the  rocky  place, 
where,  parting  the  underbrush  cautiously,  I  saw  a  dark 
hole  among  the  rocks  of  a  little  opening.  The  roots 
of  an  upturned  tree  arched  over  the  hole,  making  a 
broad  doorway.  In  this  doorway  stood  two  half-grown 
lucivees,  fuzzy  and  gray  and  savage-looking,  their 
backs  still  up,  their  wild  eyes  turned  in  my  direction 
apprehensively.  Seeing  me  they  drew  farther  back 
into  the  den,  and  I  saw  nothing  more  of  them  save 
now  and  then  their  round  heads,  or  the  fire  in  their 
yellow  eyes. 

It  was  too  late  for  further  observation  that  day. 
The  fierce  old  mother  lynx  would  presently  be  back ; 
they  would  let  her  know  of  the  intruder  in  some  way ; 


Upweekis  the  Shadow.  129 

and  they  would  all  keep  close  in  the  den.  I  found  a 
place,  some  dozen  yards  above,  where  it  would  be 
possible  to  watch  them ,  marked  the  spot  by  a  blasted 
stub,  to  which  I  made  a  compass  of  broken  twigs ; 
and  then  went  back  to  camp. 

Next  morning  I  omitted  the  early  fishing,  and  was 
back  at  the  place  before  the  sun  looked  over  the  ridge. 
Their  den  .was  all  quiet,  in  deep  shadow.  Mother 
Lynx  was  still  away  on  the  early  hunting.  I  intended 
to  kill  her  when  she  came  back.  My  rifle  lay  ready 
across  my  knees.  Then  I  would  watch  the  kittens  a 
little  while,  and  kill  them  also.  I  wanted  their  skins, 
all  soft  and  fine  with  their  first  fur.  And  they  were 
too  big  and  fierce  to  think  of  taking  them  alive.  My 
vacation  was  over.  Simmo  was  already  packing  up,  to 
break  camp  that  morning.  So  there  would  be  no  time 
to  carry  out  my  long-cherished  plan  of  watching 
young  lynxes  at  play,  as  I  had  before  watched  young 
foxes  and  bears  and  owls  and  fish-hawks,  and  indeed 
almost  everything,  except  Upweekis,  in  the  wilderness. 

Presently  one  of  the  lucivees  came  out,  yawned, 
stretched,  raised  himself  against  a  root.  In  the  morn- 
ing stillness  I  could  hear  the  cut  and  rip  of  his  claws 
on  the  wood.  We  call  the  action  sharpening  the 
claws;  but  it  is  only  the  occasional  exercise  of  the 
fine  flexor  muscles  that  a  cat  uses  so  seldom,  yet  must 


130  Wilderness  Ways. 

use  powerfully  when  the  time  comes.  The  second 
lucivee  came  out  of  the  shadow  a  moment  later  and 
leaped  upon  the  fallen  tree  where  he  could  better 
watch  the  hillside  below.  For  half  an  hour  or  more, 
while  I  waited  expectantly,  both  animals  moved  rest- 
lessly about  the  den,  or  climbed  over  the  roots  and 
trunk  of  the  fallen  tree.  They  were  plainly  cross; 
they  made  no  attempt  at  play,  but  kept  well  away 
from  each  other  with  a  wholesome  respect  for  teeth 
and  claws  and  temper.  Breakfast  hour  was  long  past, 
evidently,  and  they  were  hungry. 

Suddenly  one,  who  was  at  that  moment  watching 
from  the  tree  trunk,  leaped  down;  the  second  joined 
him,  and  both  paced  back  and  forth  excitedly.  They 
had  heard  the  sounds  of  a  coming  that  were  too  fine 
for  my  ears.  A  stir  in  the  underbrush,  and  Mother 
Lynx,  a  great  savage  creature,  stalked  out  proudly.  She 
carried  a  dead  hare  gripped  across  the  middle  of  the 
back.  The  long  ears  on  one  side,  the  long  legs  on  the 
other,  hung  limply,  showing  a  fresh  kill.  She  walked 
to  the  doorway  of  her  den,  crossed  it  back  and  forth 
two  or  three  times,  still  carrying  the  hare  as  if  the  lust 
of  blood  were  raging  within  her  and  she  could  not  drop 
her  prey  even  to  her  own  little  ones,  which  followed 
her  hungrily,  one  on  either  side.  Once,  as  she  turned 
toward  me,  one  of  the  kittens  seized  a  leg  of  the  hare 


Upweeh's  the  Shadow.  131 

and  jerked  it  savagely.  The  mother  whirled  on  him, 
growling  deep  down  in  her  throat;  the  youngster 
backed  away,  scared  but  snarling.  At  last  she  flung 
the  game  down.  The  kittens  fell  upon  it  like  furies, 
growling  at  each  other,  as  I  had  seen  the  stranger  lynxes 
growling  once  before  over  the  caribou.  In  a  moment 
they  had  torn  the  carcass  apart  and  were  crouched, 
each  one  over  his  piece,  gnarling  like  a  cat  over  a 
rat,  and  stuffing  themselves  greedily  in  utter  forgetful- 
ness  of  the  mother  lynx,  which  lay  under  a  bush  some 
distance  away  and  watched  them. 

In  a  half  hour  the  savage  meal  was  over.  The 
little  ones  sat  up,  licked  their  chops,  and  began  to 
tongue  their  broad  paws.  The  mother  had  been  blink- 
ing sleepily;  now  she  rose  and  came  to  her  young.  A 
change  had  come  over  the  family.  The  kittens  ran  to 
meet  the  dam  as  if  they  had  not  seen  her  before, 
rubbing  softly  against  her  legs,  or  sitting  up  to  rub 
their  whiskers  against  hers  —  a  tardy  thanks  for  the 
breakfast  she  had  provided.  The  fierce  old  mother  too 
seemed  altogether  different.  She  arched  her  back 
against  the  roots,  purring  loudly,  while  the  little  ones 
arched  and  purred  against  her  sides.  Then  she  bent 
her  savage  head  and  licked  them  fondly  with  her 
tongue,  while  they  rubbed  as  close  to  her  as  they 
could  get,  passing  between  her  legs  as  under  a  bridge, 


132  Wilderness  Ways. 

and  trying  to  lick  her  face  in  return ;  till  all  their 
tongues  were  going  at  once  and  the  family  lay  down 
together.- 

It  was  time  to  kill  them  now.  The  rifle  lay  ready. 
But  a  change  had  come  over  the  watcher  too.  Hith- 
erto he  had  seen  Upweekis  as  a  ferocious  brute,  whom 
it  was  good  to  kill.  This  was  altogether  different. 
Upweekis  could  be  gentle  also,  it  seemed,  and  give 
herself  for  her  little  ones.  And  a  bit  of  tenderness, 
like  that  which  lay  so  unconscious  under  my  eyes,  gets 
hold  of  a  man,  and  spikes  his  guns  better  than  moral- 
izing. So  the  watcher  stole  away,  making  as  little 
noise  as  he  could,  following  his  compass  of  twigs  to 
where  the  canoes  lay  ready  and  Simmo  was  waiting. 

Sometime,  I  hope,  Simmo  and  I  will  camp  there 
again,  in  winter.  And  then  I  shall  listen  with  a  new 
interest  for  a  cry  in  the  night  which  tells  me  that 
Moktaques  the  rabbit  is  hiding  close  at  hand  in  the 
snow,  where  a  young  lynx  of  my  acquaintance  cannot 
find  him. 


VIII.     HUKWEEM   THE    NIGHT   VOICE. 


UKWEEM    the    loon    must    go 
through  the  world  crying  for  what 
he  never  gets,  and  searching  for 
one  whom  he  never  finds;  for  he 
is  the  hunting-dog  of  Clote  Scarpe. 
So  said  Simmo  to  me  one  night  in 
explaining  why  the  loon's  cry  is  so 
wild  and  sad. 

Clote  Scarpe,  by  the  way,  is  the 
legendary  hero,  the  Hiawatha  of 
the  northern  Indians.  Long  ago  he 
lived  on  the  Wollastook,  and  ruled 
the  animals,  which  all  lived  peaceably  together,  under- 
standing each  other's  language,  and  "nobody  ever  ate 
anybody,"  as  Simmo  says.  But  when  Clote  Scarpe 
went  away  they  quarreled,  and  Lhoks  the  panther  and 
Nemox  the  fisher  took  to  killing  the  other  animals. 
Malsun  the  wolf  soon  followed,  and  ate  all  he  killed  ; 
and  Meeko  the  squirrel,  who  always  makes  all  the 
mischief  he  can,  set  even  the  peaceable  animals  by  the 
ears,  so  that  they  feared  and  distrusted  each  other. 

133 


134  Wilderness  Ways. 

Then  they  scattered  through  the  big  woods,  living 
each  one  for  himself;  and  now  the  strong  ones  kill 
the  weak,  and  nobody  understands  anybody  any  more. 

There  were  no  dogs  in  those  days.  Hukweem  was 
Clote  Scarpe's  hunting  companion  when  he  hunted 
the  great  evil  beasts  that  disturbed  the  wilderness; 
and  Hukweem  alone,  of  all  the  birds  and  animals, 
remained  true  to  his  master.  For  hunting  makes 
strong  friendship,  says  Simmo ;  and  that  is  true. 
Therefore  does  Hukweem  go  through  the  world, 
looking  for  his  master  and  calling  him  to  come  back. 
Over  the  tree-tops,  when  he  flies  low  looking  for  new 
waters;  high  in  air,  out  of  sight,  on  his  southern 
migrations;  and  on  every  lake  where  he  is  only  a 
voice,  the  sad  night  voice  of  the  vast  solitary  unknown 
wilderness — everywhere  you  hear  him  seeking.  Even 
on  the  seacoast  in  winter,  where  he  knows  Clote 
Scarpe  cannot  be  —  for  Clote  Scarpe  hates  the  sea  — 
Hukweem  forgets  himself,  and  cries  occasionally  out 
of  pure  loneliness. 

When  I  asked  what  Hukweem  says  when  he  cries 
—  for  all  cries  of  the  wilderness  have  their  interpreta- 
tion— Simmo  answered:  "  Wy,  he  say  two  ting.  First 
he  say,  Where  are  you  ?  O  where  are  you  ?  Dass 
what  you  call-um  his  laugh,  like  he  crazy.  Denn, 
wen  nobody  answer,  he  say,  O  I  so  sorry,  so  sorry  / 


Hukweem's  curiosity  could  stand  it  no  longer 


Hukweem  the  Night  Voice.  135 

Ooooo-eee !  like  woman  lost  in  woods.  An'  dass  his 
tother  cry." 

This  comes  nearer  to  explaining  the  wild  unearth- 
liness  of  Hukweem's  call  than  anything  else  I  know. 
It  makes  things  much  simpler  to  understand,  when  you 
are  camped  deep  in  the  wilderness,  and  the  night  falls, 
and  out  of  the  misty  darkness  under  the  farther  shore 
comes  a  wild  shivering  call  that  makes  one's  nerves 
tingle  till  he  finds  out  about  it —  Where  are  you? 
O  where  are  you?  That  is  just  like  Hukweem. 

Sometimes,  however,  he  varies  the  cry,  and  asks  very 
plainly :  "  Who  are  you  ?  O  who  are  you  ?  "  There 
was  a  loon  on  the  Big  Squattuk  lake,  where  I  camped 
one  summer,  which  was  full  of  inquisitiveness  as  a 
blue  jay.  He  lived  alone  at  one  end  of  the  lake, 
while  his  mate,  with  her  brood  of  two,  lived  at  the 
other  end,  nine  miles  away.  Every  morning  and 
evening  he  came  close  to  my  camp  —  very  much 
nearer  than  is  usual,  for  loons  are  wild  and  shy  in 
the  wilderness  —  to  cry  out  his  challenge.  Once, 
late  at  night,  I  flashed  a  lantern  at  the  end  of  the  old 
log  that  served  as  a  landing  for  the  canoes,  where  I 
had  heard  strange  ripples ;  and  there  was  Hukweem, 
examining  everything  with  the  greatest  curiosity. 

Every  unusual  thing  in  our  doings  made  him  in- 
quisitive to  know  all  about  it.  Once,  when  I  started 


136  Wilderness  Ways. 

down  the  lake  with  a  fair  wind,  and  a  small  spruce  set 
up  in  the  bow  of  my  canoe  for  a  sail,  he  followed  me 
four  or  five  miles,  calling  all  the  way.  And  when  I 
came  back  to  camp  at  twilight  with  a  big  bear  in  the 
canoe,  his  shaggy  head  showing  over  the  bow,  and 
his  legs  up  over  the  middle  thwart,  like  a  little  old 
black  man  with  his  wrinkled  feet  on  the  table,  Huk- 
weem's  curiosity  could  stand  it  no  longer.  He  swam 
up  within  twenty  yards,  and  circled  the  canoe  half 
a  dozen  times,  sitting  up  straight  on  his  tail  by  a 
vigorous  use  of  his  wings,  stretching  his  neck  like 
an  inquisitive  duck,  so  as  to  look  into  the  canoe  and 
see  what  queer  thing  I  had  brought  with  me. 

He  had  another  curious  habit  which  afforded  him 
unending  amusement.  There  was  a  deep  bay  on 
the  west  shore  of  the  lake,  with  hills  rising  abruptly 
on  three  sides.  The  echo  here  was  remarkable  ;  a 
single  shout  brought  a  dozen  distinct  answers,  and 
then  a  confusion  of  tongues  as  the  echoes  and  re- 
echoes from  many  hills  met  and  mingled.  I  discov- 
ered the  place  in  an  interesting  way. 

One  evening  at  twilight,  as  I  was  returning  to  camp 
from  exploring  the  upper  lake,  I  heard  a  wild  crying 
of  loons  on  the  west  side.  There  seemed  to  be  five 
or  six  of  the  great  divers,  all  laughing  and  shrieking 
like  so  many  lunatics.  Pushing  over  to  investigate,  1 


Hukweem  the  Night  Voice.  137 

noticed  for  the  first  time  the  entrance  to  a  great  bay, 
and  paddled  up  cautiously  behind  a  point,  so  as  to 
surprise  the  loons  at  their  game.  For  they  play  games, 
just  as  crows  do.  But  when  I  looked  in,  there  was 
only  one  bird,  Hukweem  the  Inquisitive.  I  knew  him 
instantly  by  his  great  size  and  beautiful  markings.  He 
would  give  a  single  sharp  call,  and  listen  intently,  with 
head  up,  swinging  from  side  to  side  as  the  separate 
echoes  came  ringing  back  from  the  hills.  Then  he 
would  try  his  cackling  laugh,  Ooo-ah-ha-ha-ha-hoo,  ooo- 
ah-ha-ha-ha-hoo,'d3\di'd£  the  echoes  began  to  ring  about 
his  head  he  would  get  excited,  sitting  up  on  his  tail, 
flapping  his  wings,  cackling  and  shrieking  with  glee  at 
his  own  performance.  Every  wild  syllable  was  flung 
back  like  a  shot  from  the  surrounding  hills,  till  the  air 
seemed  full  of  loons,  all  mingling  their  crazy  cachinna- 
tions  with  the  din  of  the  chief  performer.  The  uproar 
made  one  shiver.  Then  Hukweem  would  cease  sud- 
denly, listening  intently  to  the  warring  echoes.  Before 
the  confusion  was  half  ended  he  would  get  excited 
again,  and  swim  about  in  small  circles,  spreading  wings 
and  tail,  showing  his  fine  feathers  as  if  every  echo 
were  an  admiring  loon,  pleased  as  a  peacock  with  him- 
self at  having  made  such  a  noise  in  a  quiet  world. 

There  was  another  loon,  a  mother  bird,  on  a  different 
lake,  whose  two  eggs  had  been  carried  off  by  a  thieving 


138  Wilderness  Ways. 

muskrat ;  but  she  did  not  know  who  did  it,  for  Musquash 
knows  how  to  roll  the  eggs  into  water  and  carry  them 
off,  before  eating,  where  the  mother  bird  will  not  find 
the  shells.  She  came  swimming  down  to  meet  us  the 
moment  our  canoe  entered  the  lake;  and  what  she 
seemed  to  cry  was,  "  Where  are  they  ?  O  where  are 
they?"  She  followed  us  across  the  lake,  accusing  us 
of  robbery,  and  asking  the  same  question  over  and  over. 
But  whatever  the  meaning  of  Hukweem's  crying, 
it  seems  to  constitute  a  large  part  of  his  existence. 
Indeed,  it  is  as  a  cry  that  he  is  chiefly  known  —  the 
wild,  unearthly  cry  of  the  wilderness  night.  His 
education  for  this  begins  very  early.  Once  I  was 
exploring  the  grassy  shores  of  a  wild  lake  when  a 
mother  loon  appeared  suddenly,  out  in  the  middle, 
with  a  great  splashing  and  crying.  I  paddled  out  to 
see  what  was  the  matter.  She  withdrew  with  a  great 
effort,  apparently,  as  I  approached,  still  crying  loudly 
and  beating  the  water  with  her  wings.  "  Oho,"  I  said, 
"  you  have  a  nest  in  there  somewhere,  and  now  you  are 
trying  to  get  me  away  from  it."  This  was  the  only  time 
I  have  ever  known  a  loon  to  try  that  old  mother  bird's 
trick.  Generally  they  slip  off  the  nest  while  the  canoe 
is  yet  half  a  mile  away,  and  swim  under  water  a  long 
distance,  and  watch  you  silently  from  the  other  side  of 
the  lake. 


Hukweem  the  Night  Voice.  139 

I  went  back  and  hunted  awhile  for  the  nest  among 
the  bogs  of  a  little  bay ;  then  left  the  search  to  investi- 
gate a  strange  call  that  sounded  continuously  farther 
up  the  shore.  It  came  from  some  hidden  spot  in  the 
tall  grass,  an  eager  little  whistling  cry,  reminding  me 
somehow  of  a  nest  of  young  fish-hawks. 

As  I  waded  cautiously  among  the  bogs,  trying  to 
locate  the  sound,  I  came  suddenly  upon  the  loon's  nest 
—  just  the  bare  top  of  a  bog,  where  the  mother  bird 
had  pulled  up  the  grass  and  hollowed  the  earth 
enough  to  keep  the  eggs  from  rolling  out.  They 
were  there  on  the  bare  ground,  two  very  large  olive 
eggs  with  dark  blotches.  I  left  them  undisturbed  and 
went  on  to  investigate  the  crying,  which  had  stopped 
a  moment  as  I  approached  the  nest. 

Presently  it  began  again  behind  me,  faint  at  first, 
then  louder  and  more  eager,  till  I  traced  it  back  to 
Hukweem's  household.  But  there  was  nothing  here 
to  account  for  it,  only  two  innocent-looking  eggs  on 
top  of  a  bog.  I  bent  over  to  examine  them  more 
closely.  There,  on  the  sides,  were  two  holes,  and  out 
of  the  holes  projected  the  points  of  two  tiny  bills. 
Inside  were  two  little  loons,  crying  at  the  top  of 
their  lungs,  "Let  me  out!  O  let  me  out!  It's  hot 
in  here.  Let  me  out  —  Oooo-eee  !  pip-pip-pip  /  " 

But  I  left  the  work  of  release  to  the  mother  bird, 


140  Wilderness  Ways. 

thinking  she  knew  more  about  it.  Next  day  I  went 
back  to  the  place,  and,  after  much  watching,  saw  two 
little  loons  stealing  in  and  out  among  the  bogs,  exult- 
ing in  their  freedom,  but  silent  as  two  shadows.  The 
mother  bird  was  off  on  the  lake,  fishing  for  their 
dinner. 

Hukweem's  fishing  is  always  an  interesting  thing  to 
watch.  Unfortunately  he  is  so  shy  that  one  seldom 
gets  a  good  opportunity.  Once  I  found  his  favorite 
fishing  ground,  and  came  every  day  to  watch  him  from 
a  thicket  on  the  shore.  It  was  of  little  use  to  go  in  a 
canoe.  At  my  approach  he  would  sink  deeper  and 
deeper  in  the  water,  as  if  taking  in  ballast.  How  he 
does  this  is  a  mystery;  for  his  body  is  much  lighter 
than  its  bulk  of  water.  Dead  or  alive,  it  floats  like  a 
cork ;  yet  without  any  perceptible  motion,  by  an  effort 
of  will  apparently,  he  sinks  it  out  of  sight.  You  are 
approaching  in  your  canoe,  and  he  moves  off  slowly, 
swinging  his  head  from  side  to  side  so  as  to  look  at 
you  first  with  one  eye,  then  with  the  other.  Your 
canoe  is  swift ;  he  sees  that  you  are  gaining,  that  you 
are  already  too  near.  He  swings  on  the  water,  and  sits 
watching  you  steadily.  Suddenly  he  begins  to  sink, 
deeper  and  deeper,  till  his  back  is  just  awash.  Go  a 
little  nearer,  and  now  his  body  disappears;  only  his 
neck  and  head  remain  above  water.  Raise  your  hand, 


Hukweem  the  Night  Voice.  141 

or  make  any  quick  motion,  and  he  is  gone  altogether. 
He  dives  like  a  flash,  swims  deep  and  far,  and  when  he 
comes  to  the  surface  will  be  well  out  of  danger. 

If  you  notice  the  direction  of  his  bill  as  it  enters 
the  water,  you  can  tell  fairly  well  about  where  he  will 
come  up  again.  It  was  confusing  at  first,  in  chasing 
him,  to  find  that  he  rarely  came  up  where  he  was  ex- 
pected. I  would  paddle  hard  in  the  direction  he  was 
going,  only  to  find  him  far  to  the  right  or  left,  or 
behind  me,  when  at  last  he  showed  himself.  That  was 
because  I  followed  his  body,  not  his  bill.  Moving  in 
one  direction,  he  will  turn  his  head  and  dive.  That  is 
to  mislead  you,  if  you  are  following  him.  Follow  his 
bill,  as  he  does  himself,  and  you  will  be  near  him  when 
he  rises ;  for  he  rarely  turns  under  water. 

With  two  good  men  to  paddle,  it  is  not  difficult  to 
tire  him  out.  Though  he  swims  with  extraordinary 
rapidity  under  water  —  fast  enough  to  follow  and  catch 
a  trout  —  a  long  deep  dive  tires  him,  and  he  must  rest 
before  another.  If  you  are  chasing  him,  shout  and 
wave  your  hat  the  moment  he  appears,  and  paddle  hard 
the  way  his  bill  points  as  he  dives  again.  The  next 
time  he  comes  up  you  are  nearer  to  him.  Send  him 
down  again  quick,  and  after  him.  The  next  time  he 
is  frightened  to  see  the  canoe  so  close,  and  dives  deep, 
which  tires  him  the  more.  So  his  disappearances 


142  Wilderness  Ways. 

become  shorter  and  more  confused;  you  follow  him 
more  surely  because  you  can  see  him  plainly  now  as  he 
goes  down.  Suddenly  he  bursts  out  of  water  beside 
you,  scattering  the  spray  into  your  canoe.  Once  he 
came  up  under  my  paddle,  and  I  plucked  a  feather 
from  his  back  before  he  got  away. 

This  last  appearance  always  scares  him  out  of  his 
wits,  and  you  get  what  you  have  been  working  hard 
for — a  sight  of  Hukweem  getting  under  way.  Away 
he  goes  in  a  smother  of  spray,  beating  the  water  with 
his  wings,  kicking  hard  to  lift  himself  up ;  and  so  for 
a  hundred  yards,  leaving  a  wake  like  a  stern-wheel 
steamer,  till  he  gathers  headway  enough  to  rise  from 
the  water. 

After  that  first  start  there  is  no  sign  of  awkward- 
ness. His  short  wings  rise  and  fall  with  a  rapidity 
that  tries  the  eye  to  follow,  like  the  rush  of  a  coot 
down  wind  to  decoys.  You  can  hear  the  swift,  strong 
beat  of  them,  far  over  your  head,  when  he  is  not 
calling.  His  flight  is  very  rapid,  very  even,  and  often 
at  enormous  altitudes.  But  when  he  wants  to  come 
down  he  always  gets  frightened,  thinking  of  his  short 
wings,  and  how  high  he  is,  and  how  fast  he  is  going. 
On  the  ocean,  in  winter,  where  he  has  all  the  room  he 
wants,  he  sometimes  comes  down  in  a  great  incline, 
miles  long,  and  plunges  through  and  over  a  dozen 


Hukweem  the  Night  Voice.  143 

waves,  like  a  dolphin,  before  he  can  stop.  But  where 
the  lake  is  small,  and  he  cannot  come  down  that  way, 
he  has  a  dizzy  time  of  it. 

Once,  on  a  little  lake  in  September,  I  used  to  watch 
for  hours  to  get  a  sight  of  the  process.  Twelve  or 
fifteen  loons  were  gathered  there,  holding  high  carni- 
val. They  called  down  every  migrating  loon  that 
passed  that  way ;  their  numbers  increased  daily. 
Twilight  was  the  favorite  time  for  arriving.  In  the 
stillness  I  would  hear  Hukweem  far  away,  so  high 
that  he  was  only  a  voice.  Presently  I  would  see  him 
whirling  over  the  lake  in  a  great  circle. —  "  Come  down, 
O  come  down,"  cry  all  the  loons.  "  I  'm  afraid,  ooo-ho- 
ho-ho-ho-hoooo-eee,  I  'm  afraid,"  says  Hukweem,  who  is 
perhaps  a  little  loon,  all  the  way  from  Labrador  on 
his  first  migration,  and  has  never  come  down  from  a 
height  before.  "  Come  on,  O  come  oh-ho-ho-ho-ho-hon. 
It  won't  hurt  you;  we  did  it;  come  on,"  cry  all  the 
loons. 

Then  Hukweem  would  slide  lower  with  each  circle, 
whirling  round  and  round  the  lake  in  a  great  spiral, 
yelling  all  the  time,  and  all  the  loons  answering. 
When  low  enough,  he  would  set  his  wings  and 
plunge  like  a  catapult  at  the  very  midst  of  the  as- 
sembly, which  scattered  wildly,  yelling  like  school- 
boys—  "Look  out!  he'll  break  his  neck;  he'll  hit 


144  Wilderness  Ways. 

you;  he  '11  break  your  back  if  he  hits  you." — So  they 
splashed  away  in  a  desperate  fright,  each  one  looking 
back  over  his  shoulder  to  see  Hukweem  come  down, 
which  he  would  do  at  a  terrific  pace,  striking  the  water 
with  a  mighty  splash,  and  shooting  half  across  the 
lake  in  a  smother  of  white,  before  he  could  get  his 
legs  under  him  and  turn  around.  Then  all  the  loons 
would  gather  round  him,  cackling,  shrieking,  laughing, 
with  such  a  din  as  the  little  loon  never  heard  in  his 
life  before ;  and  he  would  go  off  in  the  midst  of  them, 
telling  them,  no  doubt,  what  a  mighty  thing  it  was  to 
come  down  from  so  high  and  not  break  his  neck. 

A  little  later  in  the  fall  I  saw  those  same  loons  do 
an  astonishing  thing.  For  several  evenings  they  had 
been  keeping  up  an  unusual  racket  in  a  quiet  bay, 
out  of  sight  of  my  camp.  I  asked  Simmo  what  he 
thought  they  were  doing.  —  "  O,  I  don'  know,  playin' 
game,  I  guess,  jus'  like  one  boy.  Hukweem  do  dat 
sometime,  wen  he  not  hungry,"  said  Simmo,  going  on 
with  his  bean-cooking.  That  excited  my  curiosity; 
but  when  I  reached  the  bay  it  was  too  dark  to  see 
what  they  were  playing. 

One  evening,  when  I  was  fishing  at  the  inlet,  the 
racket  was  different  from  any  I  had  heard  before. 
There  would  be  an  interval  of  perfect  silence,  broken 
suddenly  by  wild  yelling;  then  the  ordinary  loon  talk 


Hukweem  the  Night  Voice.  145 

for  a  few  minutes,  and  another  silence,  broken  by  a 
shriller  outcry.  That  meant  that  something  unusual 
was  going  on,  so  I  left  the  trout,  to  find  out  about  it. 

When  I  pushed  my  canoe  through  the  fringe  of 
water-grass  on  the  point  nearest  the  loons,  they  were 
scattered  in  a  long  line,  twelve  or  fifteen  of  them,  ex- 
tending from  the  head  of  the  bay  to  a  point  nearly 
opposite  me.  At  the  other  end  of  the  line  two  loons 
were  swimming  about,  doing  something  which  I  could 
not  make  out.  Suddenly  the  loon  talk  ceased.  There 
may  have  been  a  signal  given,  which  I  did  not  hear. 
Anyway,  the  two  loons  faced  about  at  the  same 
moment  and  came  tearing  down  the  line,  using 
wings  and  feet  to  help  in  the  race.  The  upper 
loons  swung  in  behind  them  as  they  passed,  so  as  to 
watch  the  finish  better;  but  not  a  sound  was  heard 
till  they  passed  my  end  of  the  line  in  a  close,  hard 
race,  one  scarcely  a  yard  ahead  of  the  other,  when  such 
a  yelling  began  as  I  never  heard  before.  All  the  loons 
gathered  about  the  two  swimmers;  there  was  much 
cackling  and  crying,  which  grew  gradually  quieter ; 
then  they  began  to  string  out  in  another  long  line,  and 
two  more  racers  took  their  places  at  one  end  of  it.  By 
that  time  it  was  almost  dark,  and  I  broke  up  the  race 
trying  to  get  nearer  in  my  canoe  so  as  to  watch  things 
better. 


146  Wilderness  Ways. 

Twice  since  then  I  have  heard  from,  summer  camp- 
ers of  their  having  seen  loons  racing  across  a  lake.  I 
have  no  doubt  it  is  a  frequent  pastime  with  the  birds 
when  the  summer  cares  for  the  young  are  ended,  and 
autumn  days  are  mellow,  and  fish  are  plenty,  and  there 
are  long  hours  just  for  fun  together,  before  Hukweem 
moves  southward  for  the  hard  solitary  winter  life  on 
the  sea-coast. 

Of  all  the  loons  that  cried  out  to  me  in  the  night, 
or  shared  the  summer  lakes  with  me,  only  one  ever 
gave  me  the  opportunity  of  watching  at  close  quarters. 
It  was  on  a  very  wild  lake,  so  wild  that  no  one  had 
ever  visited  it  before  in  summer,  and  a  mother  loon  felt 
safe  in  leaving  the  open  shore,  where  she  generally 
nests,  and  placing  her  eggs  on  a  bog  at  the  head  of  a 
narrow  bay.  I  found  them  there  a  day  or  two  after 
my  arrival. 

I  used  to  go  at  all  hours  of  the  day,  hoping  the 
mother  would  get  used  to  me  and  my  canoe,  so  that 
I  could  watch  her  later,  teaching  her  little  ones;  but 
her  wildness  was  unconquerable.  Whenever  I  came 
in  sight  of  the  nest-bog,  with  only  the  loon's  neck 
and  head  visible,  standing  up  very  straight  and  still  in 
the  grass,  I  would  see  her  slip  from  the  nest,  steal 
away  through  the  green  cover  to  a  deep  place,  and 
glide  under  water  without  leaving  a  ripple.  Then, 


Hukweem  the  Night  Voice.  147 

looking  sharp  over  the  side  into  the  clear  water,  I 
would  get  a  glimpse  of  her,  just  a  gray  streak  with  a 
string  of  silver  bubbles,  passing  deep  and  swift  under 
my  canoe.  So  she  went  through  the  opening,  and 
appeared  far  out  in  the  lake,  where  she  would  swim 
back  and  forth,  as  if  fishing,  until  I  went  away.  As  I 
never  disturbed  her  nest,  and  always  paddled  away 
soon,  she  thought  undoubtedly  that  she  had  fooled 
me,  and  that  I  knew  nothing  about  her  or  her  nest. 

Then  I  tried  another  plan.  I  lay  down  in  my  canoe, 
and  had  Simmo  paddle  me  up  to  the  nest.  While  the 
loon  was  out  on  the  lake,  hidden  by  the  grassy  shore, 
I  went  and  sat  on  a  bog,  with  a  friendly  alder  bending 
over  me,  within  twenty  feet  of  the  nest,  which  was  in 
plain  sight.  Then  Simmo  paddled  away,  and  Huk- 
weem came  back  without  the  slightest  suspicion.  As 
I  had  supposed,  from  the  shape  of  the  nest,  she  did  not 
sit  on  her  two  eggs ;  she  sat  on  the  bog  instead,  and 
gathered  them  close  to  her  side  with  her  wing.  That 
was  all  the  brooding  they  had,  or  needed ;  for  within 
a  week  there  were  two  bright  little  loons  to  watch  in- 
stead of  the  eggs. 

After  the  first  success  I  used  to  go  alone  and,  while 
the  mother  bird  was  out  on  the  lake,  would  pull  my 
canoe  up  in  the  grass,  a  hundred  yards  or  so  below 
the  nest.  From  here  I  entered  the  alders  and  made 


148  Wilderness  Ways. 

my  way  to  the  bog,  where  I  could  watch  Hukweem  at 
my  leisure.  After  a  long  wait  she  would  steal  into  the 
bay  very  shyly,  and  after  much  fear  and  circumspection 
glide  up  to  the  canoe.  It  took  a  great  deal  of  looking 
and  listening  to  convince  her  that  it  was  harmless,  and 
that  I  was  not  hiding  near  in  the  grass.  Once  con- 
vinced, however,  she  would  come  direct  to  the  nest ; 
and  I  had  the  satisfaction  at  last  of  watching  a  loon 
at  close  quarters. 

She  would  sit  there  for  hours  —  never  sleeping 
apparently,  for  her  eye  was  always  bright  —  preening 
herself,  turning  her  head  slowly,  so  as  to  watch  on  all 
sides,  snapping  now  and  then  at  an  obtrusive  fly,  all 
in  utter  unconsciousness  that  I  was  just  behind  her, 
watching  every  movement.  Then,  when  I  had  enough, 
I  would  steal  away  along  a  caribou  path,  and  push  off 
quietly  in  my  canoe  without  looking  back.  She  saw 
me,  of  course,  when  I  entered  the  canoe,  but  not 
once  did  she  leave  the  nest.  When  I  reached  the 
open  lake,  a  little  searching  with  my  glass  always 
showed  me  her  head  there  in  the  grass,  still  turned 
in  my  direction  apprehensively. 

I  had  hoped  to  see  her  let  the  little  ones  out  of  their 
hard  shell,  and  see  them  first  take  the  water;  but  that 
was  too  much  to  expect.  One  day  I  heard  them 
whistling  in  the  eggs;  the  next  day,  when  I  came, 


Hukweem  the  Night  Voice.  149 

there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  on  the  nest-bog.  I 
feared  that  something  had  heard  their  whistling  and 
put  an  untimely  end  to  the  young  Hukweems  while 
mother  bird  was  away.  But  when  she  came  back, 
after  a  more  fearful  survey  than  usual  of  the  old  bark 
canoe,  two  downy  little  fellows  came  bobbing  to  meet 
her  out  of  the  grass,  where  she  had  hidden  them  and 
told  them  to  stay  till  she  came  back. 

It  was  a  rare  treat  to  watch  them  at  their  first  feed- 
ing, the  little  ones  all  eagerness,  bobbing  about  in  the 
delight  of  eating  and  the  wonder  of  the  new  great 
world,  the  mother  all  tenderness  and  watchfulness. 
Hukweem  had  never  looked  to  me  so  noble  before. 
This  great  wild  mother  bird,  moving  ceaselessly  with 
marvelous  grace  about  her  little  ones,  watching  their 
play  with  exquisite  fondness,  and  watching  the  great 
dangerous  world  for  their  sakes,  now  chiding  them 
gently,  now  drawing  near  to  touch  them  with  her 
strong  bill,  or  to  rub  their  little  cheeks  with  hers, 
or  just  to  croon  over  them  in  an  ecstasy  of  that 
wonderful  mother  love  which  makes  the  summer 
wilderness  beautiful,  —  in  ten  minutes  she  upset  all 
my  theories,  and  won  me  altogether,  spite  of  what 
I  had  heard  and  seen  of  her  destructiveness  on  the 
fishing  grounds.  After  all,  why  should  she  not  fish 
as  well  as  I  ? 


150  Wilderness  Ways. 

And  then  began  the  first  lessons  in  swimming  and 
hiding  and  diving,  which  I  had  waited  so  long  to  see. 

Later  I  saw  her  bring  little  fish,  which  she  had 
slightly  wounded,  turn  them  loose  in  shallow  water, 
and  with  a  sharp  cluck  bring  the  young  loons  out  of 
their  hiding,  to  set  them  chasing  and  diving  wildly  for 
their  own  dinners.  But  before  that  happened  there 
was  almost  a  tragedy. 

One  day,  while  the  mother  was  gone  fishing,  the 
little  ones  came  out  of  their  hiding  among  the  grasses, 
and  ventured  out  some  distance  into  the  bay.  It  was 
their  first  journey  alone  into  the  world ;  they  were  full 
of  the  wonder  and  importance  of  it.  Suddenly,  as  I 
watched,  they  began  to  dart  about  wildly,  moving 
with  astonishing  rapidity  for  such  little  fellows,  and 
whistling  loudly.  From  the  bank  above,  a  swift  ripple 
had  cut  out  into  the  water  between  them  and  the  only 
bit  of  bog  with  which  they  were  familiar.  Just  behind 
the  ripple  were  the  sharp  nose  and  the  beady  eyes  of 
Musquash,  who  is  always  in  some  mischief  of  this 
kind.  In  one  of  his  prowlings  he  had  discovered  the 
little  brood;  now  he  was  maneuvering  craftily  to 
keep  the  frightened  youngsters  moving  till  they 
should  be  tired  out,  while  he  himself  crept  care- 
fully between  them  and  the  shore. 

Musquash  knows  well  that  when  a  young  loon,  or  a 


Hukweem  the  Night  Voice.  1 5 1 

shelldrake,  or  a  black  duck,  is  caught  in  the  open  like 
that,  he  always  tries  to  get  back  where  his  mother  hid 
him  when  she  went  away.  That  is  what  the  poor 
little  fellows  were  trying  to  do  now,  only  to  be  driven 
back  and  kept  moving  wildly  by  the  muskrat,  who 
lifted  himself  now  and  then  from  the  water,  and  wig- 
gled his  ugly  jaws  in  anticipation  of  the  feast.  He 
had  missed  the  eggs  in  his  search ;  but  young  loon 
would  be  better,  and  more  of  it.  —  "  There  you  are !  " 
he  snapped  viciously,  lunging  at  the  nearest  loon, 
which  flashed  under  water  and  barely  escaped. 

I  had  started  up  to  interfere,  for  I  had  grown  fond 
of  the  little  wild  things  whose  growth  I  had  watched 
from  the  beginning,  when  a  great  splashing  began  on 
my  left,  and  I  saw  the  old  mother  bird  coming  like  a 
fury.  She  was  half  swimming,  half  flying,  tearing 
over  the  water  at  a  great  pace,  a  foamy  white  wake 
behind  her. — "  Now,  you  little  villain,  take  your  medi- 
cine. It's  coming;  it's  coming,"  I  cried  excitedly, 
and  dodged  back  to  watch.  But  Musquash,  intent  on 
his  evil  doing  (he  has  no  need  whatever  to  turn 
flesh-eater),  kept  on  viciously  after  the  exhausted 
little  ones,  paying  no  heed  to  his  rear. 

Twenty  yards  away  the  mother  bird,  to  my  great 
astonishment,  flashed  out  of  sight  under  water. 
What  could  it  mean !  But  there  was  little  time  to 


I52  Wilderness  Ways. 

wonder.  Suddenly  a  catapult  seemed  to  strike  the 
muskrat  from  beneath  and  lift  him  clear  from  the 
water.  With  a  tremendous  rush  and  sputter  Huk- 
weem  came  out  beneath  him,  her  great  pointed  bill 
driven  through  to  his  spine.  Little  need  of  my  help 
now.  With  another  straight  hard  drive,  this  time  at 
eye  and  brain,  she  flung  him  aside  disdainfully  and 
rushed  to  her  shivering  little  ones,  questioning,  chid- 
ing, praising  them,  all  in  the  same  breath,  fluttering 
and  cackling  low  in  an  hysteric  wave  of  tenderness. 
Then  she  swam  twice  around  the  dead  muskrat  and 
led  her  brood  away  from  the  place. 

Perhaps  it  was  to  one  of  those  same  little  ones  that 
I  owe  a  service  for  which  I  am  more  than  grateful.  It 
was  in  September,  when  I  was  at  a  lake  ten  miles 
away  —  the  same  lake  into  which  a  score  of  frolicking 
young  loons  gathered  before  moving  south,  and  swam 
a  race  or  two  for  my  benefit.  I  was  lost  one  day, 
hopelessly  lost,  in  trying  to  make  my  way  from  a  wild 
little  lake  where  I  had  been  fishing,  to  the  large  lake 
where  my  camp  was.  It  was  late  afternoon.  To 
avoid  the  long  hard  tramp  down  a  river,  up  which 
I  had  come  in  the  early  morning,  I  attempted  to  cut 
across  through  unbroken  forest  without  a  compass. 
Traveling  through  a  northern  forest  in  summer  is 
desperately  hard  work.  The  moss  is  ankle  deep,  the 


Hukweem  the  Night  Voice.  153 

underbrush  thick ;  fallen  logs  lie  across  each  other  in 
hopeless  confusion,  through  and  under  and  over  which 
one  must  make  his  laborious  way,  stung  and  pestered 
by  hordes  of  black  flies  and  mosquitoes.  So  that, 
unless  you  have  a  strong  instinct  of  direction,  it  is 
almost  impossible  to  hold  your  course  without  a 
compass,  or  a  bright  sun,  to  guide  you. 

I  had  not  gone  half  the  distance  before  I  was  astray. 
The  sun  was  long  obscured,  and  a  drizzling  rain  set 
in,  without  any  direction  whatever  in  it  by  the  time  it 
reached  the  underbrush  where  I  was.  I  had  begun  to 
make  a  little  shelter,  intending  to  put  in  a  cheerless 
night  there,  when  I  heard  a  cry,  and  looking  up 
caught  a  glimpse  of  Hukweem  speeding  high  over 
the  tree- tops.  Far  down  on  my  right  came  a  faint 
answering  cry,  and  I  hastened  in  its  direction,  making 
an  Indian  compass  of  broken  twigs  as  I  went  along. 
Hukweem  was  a  young  loon,  and  was  long  in  coming 
down.  The  crying  ahead  grew  louder.  Stirred  up 
from  their  day  rest  by  his  arrival,  the  other  loons 
began  their  sport  earlier  than  usual.  The  crying 
soon  became  almost  continuous,  and  I  followed  it 
straight  to  the  lake. 

Once  there,  it  was  a  simple  matter  to  find  the  river 
and  my  old  canoe  waiting  patiently  under-  the  alders 
in  the  gathering  twilight.  Soon  I  was  afloat  again, 


154  Wilderness  Ways. 

with  a  sense  of  unspeakable  relief  that  only  one  can 
appreciate  who  has  been  lost  and  now  hears  the 
ripples, sing  under  him,  knowing  that  the  cheerless 
woods  lie  behind,  and  that  the  camp-fire  beckons 
beyond  yonder  point.  The  loons  were  hallooing  far 
away,  and  I  went  over — this  time  in  pure  gratitude — 
to  see  them  again.  But  my  guide  was  modest  and 
vanished  post-haste  into  the  mist  the  moment  my 
canoe  appeared. 

Since  then,  whenever  I  hear  Hukweem  in  the 
night,  or  hear  others  speak  of  his  unearthly  laughter, 
I  think  of  that  cry  over  the  tree-tops,  and  the  thrilling 
answer  far  away.  And  the  sound  has  a  ring  to  it,  in 
my  ears,  that  it  never  had  before.  Hukweem  the 
Night  Voice  found  me  astray  in  the  woods,  and 
brought  me  safe  to  a  snug  camp.  —  That  is  a  ser- 
vice which  one  does  not  forget  in  the  wilderness. 


GLOSSARY   OF    INDIAN    NAMES. 

Cheplahgan,  chep-lah'-gan,  the  bald  eagle. 

Chigwooltz,  chig-wooltz ',  the  bullfrog. 

Cldte  Scarpe,  a  legendary  hero,  like  Hiawatha,  of  the  Northern  Indians. 

Pronounced  variously,  Clote  Scarpe,  Groscap,  Gluscap,  etc. 
Hukweem,  huk-weem',  the  great  northern  diver,  or  loon. 
Ismaques,  iss-ma-qnes' ',  the  fish-hawk. 
Kagax,  kagf-ax,  the  weasel. 

Killooleet,  kil'-loo-leet,  the  white-throated  sparrow. 
Kookooskoos,  koo-koo-skoos',  the  great  horned  owl. 
Lhoks,  locks,  the  panther. 
Malsun,  mal'-sun,  the  wolf. 
Meeko,  meek'-d,  the  red  squirrel. 
Megaleep,  meg'-d-leep,  the  caribou. 

Milicete,  mil'-t-cete,  the  name  of  an  Indian  tribe  ;  written  also  Malicete. 
Moktaques,  mok-ta'-ques,  the  hare. 
Mooween,  moo-ween',  the  black  bear. 
Nemox,  ngm'-ox,  the  fisher. 
Pekquam,  pek-ivam',  the  fisher. 
Seksagadagee,  sek'-sd-ga-dd'-gee,  the  grouse. 
Tookhees,  tok'-hees,  the  wood  mouse. 
Upweekis,  up-week'-iss,  the  Canada  lynx. 


STAMPED  BELOW 


LD  21-100m-7,'33 


